


In The Woods Somewhere

by sharkyclarky



Series: Once Upon a Time Crossovers [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Kinda gorey too, Like loads!, Loads of relationships, Multi, So much death, Zombies, the walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkyclarky/pseuds/sharkyclarky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This world is going to try and break you. So break it first. When the sky falls, you find the strength to hold it up. When the earth opens and tried to swallow us whole,  you sprout wings and you fly away. This world is ours, but we can't keep it that way without a fight" </p><p>Can Emma and her loved ones survive the new world when they're hunted by both the living and the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about this crossover for ages now and I'm obsessed with The Walking Dead so it was really just a matter of tome before I did something related to it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think and feel free to ask me anything you want to know!

Everyone can remember where they were the day that the world ended. It wasn’t something that anyone would ever be able to forget. It was the largest tipping point for everyone, a shared experience that would determine the future of the human race, if there was one at all.

Emma Swan had been at her home in Boston, Massachusetts. She’d finished chasing her skip barely an hour before and had made it back just before her son was due to go to bed. Everything was ordinary, the same life she’d been living for the past five years. It was comfortable, sitting beside Henry on their sofa, a hot cocoa with cinnamon each and not a single care to be had. The radio blasted behind them in the kitchen, singing songs that Emma hadn’t bothered learning the names to, happy to let the lyrics wash over her in the background as she and Henry worked to defeat the latest dungeon boss, not that Emma was very good at this game, preferring to press random buttons and do her best not to die.

And then the broadcast sounded.

It was like stepping out of her life straight into a nightmare. The entire city was in panic. People were screaming as they raced through the street, desperate to get out of the built up areas and instead go someplace safe, a refugee camp that had apparently been opened near the outskirts of the city. That was where she and Henry had been heading. Their entire lives had been packed up into the trunk and backseats of her yellow bug, not that it was a lot, mostly food Emma thought it was worth taking, a few of Henry’s comics and as much necessities as they could manage. Anything else, anything sentimental, had been left behind. Not that there had been much, Emma having never been the sentimental type, but there were the odd photos of her and Henry that she’d not had the heart to leave behind, and Henry's storybook, of course.

Now, she was grateful she’d kept them.

After the refugee camp had turned out to be a bust, Emma had hit the highway to go as far and as fast as she could, dragging Henry away from the city they’d called home as it fell to the dead. It was a ghost town now, full of monsters wearing the faces of people who had been lost to what could only be called an epidemic. The world was falling, and Emma refused to allow her son to fall alongside it.

Sleeping rough followed that. With nowhere untouched by the creatures Henry had taken to calling ‘risers’, those who died and rose again, the two of them had taken to sleeping anywhere they could manage that kept them safe and out of reach. Emma’s preference was to help Henry climb into the dip of a tree in the woods, and to fasten him to the thicker branches by his belt. It wasn’t comfortable, but he was out of reach from the risers, and Emma could easily keep watch over him.

That was how the first few months had gone. Raiding empty houses for food and maybe even shelter for the night if Emma could barricade the door enough. Then the next morning they’d be gone and back on the road, siphoning what fuel they could from the cars they came across. Emma didn’t know where they were going, but being on the move made it feel like there was a plan, that all they had to do was survive until someone came to save them and fix the shit-storm that was the world. That hope had died after perhaps a month for Emma at least, right after she’d seen someone become one of the beasts she and Henry had been avoiding. She hadn’t known who it was, having stumbled upon them on a raid of the house. He was alive when they got there and Emma had gone so far as to try and tend to his wound. He had not been alive when they’d left.

Emma would never forget how Henry had screamed at the sight, the damp wash cloth he’d been dabbing at the young man’s face dropping from his hand as the man opened his inhuman eyes. Emma had nearly lost Henry that night. Had she been on a watch out on the porch or even on a run for food then it could have been too late. She’d met people who had lost loved ones and for the first time in her life Emma realised how blessed she was in this world to have only one person she cared for. So long as she kept Henry alive, she wouldn’t be alone. She could mourn the world they’d had as she lounged atop the roof of a suburban home, and she could grieve for the little things she’d never realise she missed, like showers or pillows. But she wouldn’t have to mourn for her son, and in a world gone to hell in a handbasket, that was all she could ask for.

And then she’d met David and Mary-Margret on a raid of an old convenience store. The area had been mostly riser free and Emma felt better having Henry by her side and not holed up in some random house or her nearly useless bug, gas being a lot harder than expected to come by as time wore on.

They’d seemed harmless enough, mostly due to them having Emma’s gun in her face, her pack filled with as much ammo as she’d been able to pilfer on her rounds. Henry had been the one to make her lower it, telling her that they didn’t hurt other survivors, and that there was safety in numbers. And so they’d joined forces, the bailbonds person who refused to relinquish her red leather jacket, the ten-year-old without hope to sleep through the night, the pixie-cut school teacher and the self-righteous sheriff.

They made quite the team. Mary-Margret had basic first- aid and even had the hindsight to bring first-aid kits along with her. Emma and David each had a weapon of their own, ones they were anything but afraid to use and were more than willing to pull them on any threat that befell their loved ones. And Henry, well, Henry had kept them all sane in his own little way. As they sat inside a broken up living room in the home of some accountant, or maybe a lawyer, he’d be the one to spark conversation, to take everyone’s mind off of the hell waiting just outside the door.

Maine, that’s where they were going. Of all the places. 

Mary-Margret’s stepsister was the mayor of a small town there and since they had no other ideas of what to do, that was where they were headed. The road was long, with dangers lurking behind the trees and fear behind every corner. There had been a couple of close calls, risers – or walkers, as David called them – breaking through windows and sneaking into camps. But they’d made it. Against all the odds, they had made it.

Sure, they’d picked up a couple of others on the way. A slightly unbalanced man named Jefferson and his still sweet eleven-year-old daughter, Grace, were the first, David had picked them up as they gathered water by the creek. Jefferson had lost his wife in the first wave and he and his daughter had been on the run ever since.

Merida had been next, the fiery haired scot having pulled her bow on Emma as she patrolled the woods. After persuading her that Emma was in no way a threat, Merida had conceded to joining them, along with her three younger brothers, Hamish, Hubert and Harris, not one of them a day over fifteen and armed with everyday household tools.  

August had been the last one to join them, a writer, making his way to Maine where his adoptive father was hopefully waiting. Everything was finally beginning to look up. David was even sure he'd find his twin brother, James, in Storybrooke. Emma thought it was a slightly naïve thought, to believe that a radio message every morning would be enough to get through to his brother, but David was adamant, and as it happened, correct. James had been there, much to David's relief. Emma personally thought he was an arse, but that was hardly important.

Storybrooke was everything Mary-Margret had described it as, but suited to the world that had been born. The entire town was fenced off, alleyways blocked off with school buses, tree branches carved to a spike set before the fences to ensnare walkers before they had the chance to break through. The survivors had been welcoming enough, Regina only sneering slightly at the new arrivals in the town hall. They’d met many people then, a young woman named Ruby with crusty, chocolate brown hair pulled tight into a ponytail who lived with her crossbow wielding grandmother in the BnB above the old woman’s diner. The downstairs was entirely out of use, but the upstairs was clear, with enough spare beds to house the strangers for as much time as they needed. August found his father, Marco and Merida would provide as much food as she could manage from the forest with her bow.

It was almost perfect, or as perfect as any place could be in this world of boarded up windows and the dead rising.

And then the horde came. It tore through the town like a wave. Mary-Margret and Regina managed to gather as many people as they could, leading them away to the town hall. It was solid enough, the main room bare of windows for the walkers to see them through. So long as they kept the main doors boarded as tight as possible, and everyone inside was ready and armed - not to mention quiet -  they could just wait it out, either for the horde to pass or for those who were willing to fight against it in the streets to control the problem.

Emma had been one of those people. She had taken to one of the boarded alleyways running off of main street, hiding behind an over turned school bus, gun steady and her pack secure on her back in case she needed to hide out somewhere. Jefferson, who had lost his daughter a few weeks earlier was beside her. If she’d thought he was unhinged before, then there were no words to describe the manic look in his eye as he watched the walkers clawing and groaning in the street. Emma had been able to see Mary-Margret from where she was stationed on the roof of the library, her bow held firmly in her grip as she picked off those who strayed towards her friends. David was in the opposite alleyway with Graham, their bodies masked by the abandoned car blocking off that particular alley way. There were others of course, armed with either guns or very heavy weapons used for more brutal, melee attacks. Overall, Emma thought they stood a chance. It they stayed quiet and didn’t draw attention, the walkers should pass on by and when they were out of the towns perimeter they could repair the wire and go back to sleeping with both eyes shut for a little while.

That had worked out fine until Jefferson jumped the bus. Even now, Emma couldn’t understand why he did it, throwing himself into the arms of the walkers nearby, his gun fire drawing back those who had already passed. Everything fell into chaos. Jefferson managed to take down some of them, or at least, the same number of walkers to however much ammo was in his gun, and then a few others with his knife before they really got a hold of him.  He took a bite to the arm first and Emma knew that they could have saved that, just chopped off the tainted limb and hoping the fever didn’t kill him. But then he took one to the shoulder, and then his neck. His eyes had found Emma’s in the mania and she’d known without words what he was asking.

Old Emma would have hesitated. She’d have thought that maybe there could be a chance, however slim, that he could be salvaged from the wreck. Hell, old Emma may even have cried for Jefferson, the unbalanced man with a dead wife and who lost his daughter far too young, only to follow her out a similar way. But old Emma was gone. It took a second for Emma to line up her shot, pulling the trigger and effectively putting Jefferson out of his misery. And then she’d seen Henry just over the road, in the blocked off alleyway beside the one David and Graham hid inside. He was alone, Emma saw that much, a gun held far too loosely in his hands and pointed out towards the walkers, but his eyes were on Emma, wide and afraid. He’d seen what she’d done to Jefferson, she knew that, and she also knew that he didn’t understand. They didn’t kill the living. That was how they worked. It was how the survived as a makeshift community. It was seeing him there, seeing the walkers as they too noticed the small boy, alone and vulnerable behind a chain link fence that led Emma to do something incredibly brave and so incredibly stupid.

While some of the horde closest to her was distracted with whatever was left of Jefferson, Emma followed his lead, jumping the lowest point of the tipped up school bus and standing out in the open. They’d spotted her, of course, she’d have needed a miracle for them not to - especially after the sound of her gun firing -  but she was already semi-prepared for that. Skirting the buildings, she tried to weave her way to the front of the horde, firing her gun into the air like a shitty cowboy in one of the shitty cowboy movies they’d never make again. But that wasn’t the point, the point was to drive the walkers away, to distract them enough that she could get them away from the town, away from her friends and away from Henry.

Where she sat now, miles away, the horde still audible through the forest around her, she noted her plan was far more stupid then brave. Sure, bravery plays a very integral part to even attempt such a stupid act, let alone pull it off, but what Emma had done was irrational above everything else. She still had the horde on her trail or, at least those of it that were too determined to become distracted by something else, and she had no way of knowing she’d even made a big enough difference to save anyone. This world, this god awful world had made her reckless. The things she had done to survive she wasn’t proud of, but the things she now knew she was willing to do, they damn near terrified her.

Emma had never felt uncomfortable when she was alone, in fact, even after Henry had been born ten years’ prior, Emma had craved solace. But now there was nothing she despised more. She’d found a cabin in a clearing in the woods, or Graham had found it and showed Emma. It was well away from Storybrooke, a forty-minute drive at least and Emma felt as though she’d been walking for days until she’d reached it. It was a safe house of sorts, the wooden door having been enforced with sheets of tin by Graham, a little project of his for if a run should go bad. Boards covered the windows and curtains were thrown over them to keep any light in. It was cold in the singular room, and in Maine that was far from pleasant, but Emma could manage. There was nowhere to make a fire, not unless Emma wanted the whole place going up in smoke, but there was a thin, not too prickly camping mattress in the corner, a cupboard stocked with enough supplies to last perhaps a month for one person, less than that for more. Emma didn’t have any hopes of sticking around, not when she didn’t know if Henry was safe. A few nights was it, she told herself, long enough for the walkers to become interested in something else, then she’d be gone.

She’d said that over a week ago.

She had taken to scouting the area every morning, gauging whether or not she could start her way back to Storybrooke without drawing too much attention or being followed by the much smaller – yet, still very much a threat – horde. If that happened, then it would all be for nothing. All she could hope now was that her friends had the good sense not to go after her, and pray that they would keep on surviving until she got back. That was all that mattered now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll warn you now that updates for this story might take a while. This story was just a bit of fun really, something to get me out of my writers block. But no matter how long it takes, I will finish it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think

Finding two walkie-talkies had been something of a godsend in this world, and not one that Killian Jones took likely. He’d been travelling alone after the tragedy had gone down with his last group, a run in with Gold’s men leaving him alone, few on supplies and even fewer on limbs and will to live. Then he’d, quite literally, run into Tink, a petite blonde with a green triangle scarf around her neck and fire in her light eyes.

She’d been alone too, armed with nothing more than a single revolver from beneath her long since deceased father’s mattress and a small knife that could honestly have come from a kitchen. But she’d survived, and she’d seemed pretty unphased as well. Killian had become very used to recognising pain in others eyes, the shared glances between broken souls that said ‘ _I understand. I’ve lost people too.’_ But Tink didn’t have that, her eyes, though exhausted, were hopeful. She was yet to lose a soul to this world and Killian was both envious of her luck and grateful that he wasn’t like her. Losses made you stronger, they made you look at the world the way you were supposed to. It took away the thin guise that led you to believe everyone was safe. It showed you just how to survive.

Tink was a soft soul, Killian realised, but far from afraid to defend herself if the circumstances called for it. For the first few days of their travels, Killian had even been afraid to sleep around her, worried that her soft, cherubic face was hiding a psychopath underneath who would kill him and rob him blind at the first opportunity.  She’d proven that wrong when she finally divulged to him her plans of getting to Maine, to find a town called Storybrooke where her old friend (A term that was applied _very_ loosely) was mayor and leader of a small camp of survivors. How she’d known about this, Killian didn’t know, but he also didn’t care. Living on the run had lost him too much, had lost him his family and then the closest thing he’d had to it. He was ready to find somewhere he could settle, somewhere he may even be able to live and not just survive.

Then he heard the gunfire. According to Tink they were still a couple days walk outside of Storybrooke and if the gunfire was any indication, the conflict was occurring closer to them. Following the gunfire was the horde. Killian could hear them through the trees, see the stragglers as they broke off from the group and started after something else, something that he was starting to realise was them. They’d run at first, twisting through trees and branches together, refusing to let the other out of their sight as they ran back in the direction they’d come, not stopping for breath or falls or anything. They just ran. Until they hadn’t. Tink had suggested they split up, that she knew more or less where Storybrooke was and she would give her map to Killian. They had their rendezvous point, all the needed was to wait it out.

That was when Killian remembered the walkies. He passed one over to her, telling her the battery wouldn’t last long if they kept them on the entire time, but if they turned them on at dawn and at dusk, they should be able to communicate, and they would. Then they’d make it to Storybrooke and be safe. It was a shoddy plan, but in a world gone to shit, there wasn’t any better plans.

And so they’d split up, Killian to the east and Tink to the west with Storybrooke waiting for them in the north. They had their heading, all that was left was the last long enough to make it, something Killian was determined to do.

He’d lost track of the number of days he’d been in the woods when he found the cabin. All he knew was that it was just past dawn, Tink was alive and heading towards the town and Killian was still trying to escape walkers, and that it was empty. Well, close to empty at least. Inside the heavy door Killian found a single room, one corner set with a thin mattress with a single rolled blanket thrown off of it and no pillow. Other than that there was a cupboard, the door blown wide and the contents looking rather bare. Shutting the apparently metal enforced door behind him, Killian began exploring, his gun at the ready just in case.

At the end of the mattress was a pack, not a large one by any means, but with a small amount of food, some ammo and a sheathed hunting blade, Killian assumed it was all whoever owned it needed. The mattress was cold, so whoever had been sleeping was gone and if Killian knew anything about his world, he figured they may well even be dead. He’d long stopped feeling guilty from salvaging from the dead. Slipping his gun back into his waistband and unzipping his own pack, he began transferring anything he could need, a couple of protein bars, a compass, some medical supplies and a single box of ammo before he found something else, something unusual.

Gripping tight to the paper edge, Killian withdrew what he now realised was a photograph. The back of it read ‘ _Emma and Henry, New York’._ Flipping it over, he learnt just who Emma and Henry were, or at least what they looked like. They stood before the fountain Killian recognised from his one visit to New York, the one that people threw pennies into and made wishes for a better tomorrow. The woman – Emma – was beautiful, tall and slender with curling blonde hair falling past her shoulders and a red leather jacket he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Her arm was around the shoulders of a small boy, younger than eight, if he had to guess with soft brown hair and eyes to match. He was smiling widely at the camera, as was the woman (presumably his mother). They looked so happy, a foreign concept in this world now.

The owner to the picture, Killian assumed, was the boy’s father, perhaps the woman’s husband as well. These tokens of pasts lives were common, Killian knew, he had two of his own, two rings hanging form chains around his neck, tokens of the people he’d lost. This picture was just that, a memory of two people he – or maybe even she – had lost after the world went to shit, a wife and a son, gone in an instant. He knew how at least half of that felt. Folding it back up, he placed the photograph back inside the pack. If the owner truly was still alive and simply had no issues leaving his supplies behind then Killian would not take the only connection he had to his likely dead family.

No sooner had he zipped up the pack, he felt a very harsh, very sharp tug of a fist gripping his hair, yanking his head back as a cool blade settled just above his Adams apple.

* * *

 

Emma had only gone to scout the road, to check if the way to Storybrooke was empty enough for her to even attempt making her way home. As usual, luck wasn’t on her side and the road still seemed swarmed by the horde she’d brought along with her, the walkers not having found anything worth following as they scuffed their feet across the tarmac.

The road was at least a half an hours walk from the cabin, deep enough that Emma could make it back there without too much fear of being followed, but close enough she could make the trip daily without worry of leaving her pack and being trapped without it.

It had worked previously, her pack rubbed against her shoulder painfully anyway, a place where a stray bullet had caught her as she ran, no doubt aimed at a walker that got too close, but catching her instead. It seemed leaving her pack behind wasn’t an option anymore. The door to the cabin was ajar when she returned, not enough for a walker infestation, but enough for a person to have snuck inside. Emma knew what people were capable of in the world before this, nights she spent crying alone in a closest in a foster home, clutching cigarette burns on her arms and praying for her parents to return. The people in this world were worse, and she wasn’t taking any chances, not if it meant her not getting back to her son. She was glad Graham had put so much work into this cabin, the hinges not even squeaking as she prised it open and slipped inside.

Emma saw nothing but a silhouette, not enough daylight penetrating the room for her to make out any defining features, only a head of scruffy dark hair above broad, hunched shoulders as the man rifled through her open pack on the floor. Old Emma would have asked first and acted later, she’d have listened to reason and not shot a man in the back. Lucky for whoever this was, a little bit of the old Emma was left. Instead, she gently placed the solar lantern she’d been charging onto the floor before grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, tugging his head back harshly as her primary blade found its place a little too naturally as his throat.

“Easy, mate,” The man said, but Emma didn’t let up, only gripped his hair tighter, a groan escaping his throat as he fought against crying out. Emma was no expert, but she was sure that this hurt like a bitch, especially when pulling forward meant falling right onto a blade. “Ah, alright. I’m not here to hurt you. Easy!” He called as she tugged again. “You’re not giving me much to go on here, mate.” He said, a lot harsher this time.

“What are you doing here?” Emma said, her voice far quieter than his and she felt his shoulders tense slightly as she spoke. Either he hadn’t expected a woman to be his ‘attacker’ or Emma sounded worse than she felt. She was expecting it to be a little bit of both. “And who are you?”

“Killian Jones.” He said and even raised his hands as though in surrender, well, one of them at least, as the other seemed to end beneath his jacket sleeve. “And I’m scavenging is all. I found the cabin and assumed the owner to be dead.” It wasn't unreasonable, Emma had scavenged most of her belongings from people long dead in the past months, it was hardly a crime anymore. The only problem being that Emma was very much alive.

“Your hand,” She said and, if it was possible, he tensed more, his present hand closing into a fist. Clearly it was a sore topic. “How’d you lose it?”

“Had it amputated. Is the knife necessary, Love? I promise you I’m not armed.” He said and Emma noted how he skirted around the topic, but not as much as she noticed the lie that fell off of his tongue.

“Listen, buddy,” She said, mouth close to his ear and her words biting as she spoke. “I’m pretty good at telling when somebody is lying to me. Now,” She said, slacking her grip just a tiny bit to cease the haggard breathing coming from him. “Do you mind telling me where your weapon is.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He purred and Emma fought really hard not to roll her eyes. The men of this world, she'd noticed, or at least the ones she didn’t know, had a very annoying habit of flirting with anything female. He’d not even seen her face and yet, here he was, making innuendos like the world was as it should be. “Lower back and a knife at my hip,” He said reluctantly. Emma wasn’t about to disarm him; it wasn’t really worth it. Gun or not, she’d handled worse than him, - and that was before the outbreak – and hopefully, she was getting the message across. “What? No wandering hands?” He asked and Emma was about ready to hit his temple with the butt of her gun, but she didn’t, that wouldn’t solve anything. Mainly because all she'd have to deal with then would be dead weight, and she didn’t need the distraction

“Now, tell me why you’re really here.” Emma said, releasing his hair and pushing him forward slightly. She by no means trusted this man, but if she held onto him any longer, she knew he’d try to break free by himself, and that would likely be far more chaotic than it was worth.

“I told you, Love,” He said, standing up and rubbing the back of his head where her hands had gripped his hair. He was a lot taller than she’d expected, and in the dim light his pale eyes glowed. It was unnerving, like a fox's eyes glowing in oncoming headlights. She could barely see the rest of him, only that he seemed clad in nothing but black, a stark contrast to grimy, yet pale, skin. “I’m merely –”

“Scavening, I heard you. I also know that’s not it,” She said, clicking the ‘T’ as he looked down at her. By the sunlight breaking through the boards, she imagined he could see more of her than she did of him, and it wasn’t a very settling thought. Her red jacket was far from conspicuous and her blonde hair made her easy to spot. If he remembered enough of this, it wouldn’t take him five minutes to organise a bounty on her head, if he was _that_ kind of survivor. The kind who took what they could from the living and weren’t afraid to hunt down those who did them wrong. They’d crossed pathed with one before, a man by the name of Blackbeard who’d wanted what they had – Storybrooke. “You’re leaving something out.”

“I thought your superpower was lie detecting?” He asked and Emma could hear the smugness in his voice and even if his face was still clothed in shadow, she just knew he was smirking at her proudly. He seemed like that kind of ass-hole, of that, she was certain.

“Lying by omission is still lying,” Emma said, the grip on her knife tightening as she held it high enough for the sunlight to catch.

“Now, few people have held a knife to my throat and lived to tell about it,” He said, his voice lowering from smugness to an almost threat, but it sounded empty. Emma had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t looking to hurt her, not unless she did some damage to him first. It was a somewhat comforting thought. “So why don’t you put that down and we can talk like the civilised adults we are.” She scoffed at that. The world was anything but civilised nowadays. Emma couldn’t even count on both hands how many times she’d been held at gunpoint as a greeting, or how many times she had done the same. It was a harsh world, a world no one was prepared for, but she was surviving, and that was all that really mattered.

“Tell me what you’re doing here,” Emma said once more. Killian, thankfully, was silent for a moment, possibly weighing up whether or not Emma could be trusted knowing whatever the hell it was that he was keeping quiet.

“Trying to find a camp north of here.” He said and Emma felt her blood running cold as he spoke. North of here, Emma knew, was Storybrooke, the place where her friends were, were her son was, and she’d be damned if she let this man get there without knowing him. Trust wasn’t important, no one trusted people nowadays, but so long as he wasn’t a spy for BlackBeard or some other power hungry zealot, Emma imagined they could manage just find. Besides, after the loss of Jefferson, they needed all the men they could get. But if he took one step against her or her camp, Emma wouldn't hesitate in disposing of him. The thought terrified what humanity Emma had left dwelling in the pit of her heart. This world may still house humans, but humanity was wearing thin.

“What camp?” She asked, figuring playing dumb would work far more to her advantage than spilling her guts out to him would. Besides, she was the one with the weapon on him, not the other way around.

“Goes by the name of Stroybrooke,” Any hopes she had of it being a different camp, or a misunderstanding was gone and the chill settled in once more. “My friend and I were on our way when we were caught up in a herd. It was a matter of splitting up or dying and if there is one thing I value, it’s my life.”

“This friend, where are they now?” Emma pressed, knowing she was coming across as more than just cautious for herself, but concerned about the people she could be endangering. Chances are if Killian knew of Storybrooke, then he knew how to get there, and any amount of playing dumb with him wasn’t going to change that. So, Emma had two choices. She could leave him to find his own way, or she could join him. The extra firepower would sure come in handy, and with how she’d been feeling lately the company wouldn’t do her any harm. The longer she was left alone to her own thoughts, the more they tried to consume her, the darkness creeping in like smoke, ready to suffocate the light out of her. There was of course option three. She could kill him. Emma had her own gun in a thigh holster and another at her waistband, that and more than enough ammo to last her the journey back, one bullet wouldn’t be missed

“She went West,” Killian said and began reaching towards his waistband. Emma raised her blade once more, knowing it wasn’t half as threating as her gun would be, but she didn’t want to show that off just yet – the element of surprise could come in handy later if he didn’t know it was there. “We keep in touch,” he said, revealing the walkie-talkie that had been clipped to his belt and holding it between them, enough that she could see it, but not take it. “She’ll call again around dusk, that was the arrangement. If you stick around long enough, you’ll see that I’m not lying,” He said and Emma could see how he raised an eyebrow in the darkness, goading her into telling him he’s lying. He wasn’t, and that annoyed her possibly even more.

“Fine.” She said, lowering her knife back into the sheath at her belt. “We’ll stay here until then.” She said before making her way further into the cabin, snagging her pack from the floor in front of him as she passed. “Don’t touch my stuff.” She knew she sounded petty, probably because she was petty, but after a childhood of having any material possessions taken from her and, on occasion, destroyed, Emma far from cared.

“I’ll be sure to keep my hand where you can see it.” He said, innuendo dripping off of his tongue. She allowed herself this eye roll, knowing that he wouldn’t spot it in the dark, especially not when she was placing down the solar lantern she’d picked up after lowering her blade from his throat and settling it on the floor in front of the mat. “That’s much better,” He said as the white light filled the room. It was bright, freshly charged, but not all encompassing, the corners of the room still shrouded in darkness.

Killian was looking at her, his pale eyes bright in the light as he studied her like a student would a book, trying to read every page of her in as little time as he could manage.

“Do you have a camp?” Killian asked, watching as she sat down on the mat, rolling her shoulders in obvious discomfort. “Friends?”

“No,” She said, looking up at him where he was still standing, only the lower half of his body illuminated fully in the solar lantern. Emma noted, with slight amusement, that he was wearing both a leather jacket and leather biker trousers. It was tough material, she knew, hard to bite through, but she didn’t know if it would be worth the constant discomfort. That and leather was loud, loud enough to draw a walkers attention. “I’m kind of a loner.”

“And you don’t like your family,” It was open ended on purpose, his question, and she knew it. There were few people with family left these days, and it was never a very good conversation starter to ask. Sure, Emma had Henry, but that was all she had by means of family. And she’d be damned if she let anyone who could be a threat know about him.

“No family to like,” She said before unzipping her jacket, ready to peel it away from the still painful wound at her shoulder. She heard him laugh, not harshly and not at her expense, but in the way someone laughs when they understand, the quiet breath out through the nose that says ‘ _Yeah, don’t I know it.’_. It wasn’t an unwelcome sound. Kindred spirits were not too hard to come by anymore, but Emma had yet to find one of her own, someone who was broken long before the world. Someone who was born to rise from the ashes, not be reduced to them. If this man was truly who he said he was, then perhaps he could be that spirit, if only for a little while.

She peeled off her jacket, ready to check her shoulder and the bloody bandage surrounding it beneath her thin grey tank-top, but froze at the sound of a guns safety clicking off.

“Were you bit?” He asked harshly, taking a few steps back and away from her as though the air she breathed was toxic. She wasn’t insulted by the accusation, in fact, she was impressed that he had the forethought and self-preservation to be ready to put her down. Too few people were willing to put the living out of their misery anymore. Emma wasn’t one of those few, and neither, apparently, was Killian Jones. “Were you bit?” He demanded again, cocking his gun this time for good measure.

“No,” Emma said, trying to untangle the mass of bandages she’d hastily wrapped around her chest and arm to cover the wound. “I was shot,” She said when he kept his gun raised at her, pointed right to her head. He knew how to kill the dead, which was another plus. Their group was low on real fighters, those who would arm themselves at the first sight of trouble and be out on the streets. With her and Jefferson gone it left David, Mary-Margret, Graham and Merida. It wasn’t enough to defend a town to begin with, let alone with two of them gone.

“Shot?” He asked, but let his gun lower hesitantly.

“See?” She said, peeling the bandage from the wound with a very visible (And audible) wince. She could hear the board creak beneath him as he leant, rather than stepped closer, something Emma knew would make sound, but didn’t question. “Even has an exit wound,” She said, turning her shoulder for him to see the bloody mess the bullet had left behind. It wasn’t healing overly well, blood still oozing from it every few hours, but it wasn’t infected either, at least not yet. Emma was learning how to count her wins over her losses nowadays. 

“How long ago?” He asked, returning his gun to his waistband as moving to have a closer look at the mess of blood and torn flesh.

“About a week,” She said, reaching for her pack, knowing inside it that she still had a bit of bandage left on the roll and at least one fresh gauze.

“I’m not an expert in the ways of medicine,” He said, his head tilting as he watched her arm lay in her lap, reaching awkwardly over it to fish through her bag. “But should it still be bleeding like that?” noting the slight concern in his voice, Emma looked to her shoulder, seeing in the white light how the blood was soaking the already stained material of her vest, the blood trailing over her skin.

“I must have broken it open when I grabbed you,” She said and felt a laugh rising in her throat. She’d barely even noticed at the time, too busy gripping his hair and trying to keep her feet steady to know about a reopened wound. “I guess we’re even,” She said, finally getting a handle on the bandage and gauze, wiping the blood from her skin before attempting to redress it.

“Need a hand, Love?” He asked and Emma couldn’t help but snort at the irony.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” She asked, holding the bandage beneath her chin as she worked on placing the gauze over the wound. It needed stitching, Emma knew, but she was sure Dr. Whale could fix it up properly when she returned, that or she was going to have another battle wound for Henry to marvel at in a way that both made her proud and broke her heart. Her son was supposed to be fascinated by comic books and celebrities he’d never meet, not battle scars and how to hold a gun.

“No,” He said, reaching to take the bandage from under her chin. “I was being sincere.” And after shedding his own jacket, leaving him in a ripped, blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black waistcoat she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask about, he held the gauze in place with his bandaged wrist and began looping the bandage both around her shoulder, across her chest where she’d slipped her arm free of her bloodied vest. If he was at all distracted by the expanses of her bare skin, he didn’t show it. Yet another box ticked for Mr. Killian Jones. “You’re heading to Storybrooke too?” He asked and Emma felt her eyes widening at his assumption and the accuracy of it. “Or you’re heading back.”

“How did you –” She began, but he cut her off, tying off the bandage atop her shoulder with his teeth.

“You’re somewhat of an open book to me, Love.” He said, patting her arm to let her know he was finished, allowing her to slip her vest back on properly. “Your silence after I mentioned the town gave you away. That and you seem like someone who’s got somewhere to be.” He was already getting under Emma’s skin, and not in a pleasant way, more like a chill that settled into her bones and made her shiver.

“You’re right.” Was all she said, knowing there was no point in trying to weed her way out of it. It was hardly a lie worth telling anyway. She was both wounded and currently didn’t have many accessible weapons from where she was sat. If he wanted to hurt her, he would have, not helped wrap her bandage.

“I also know you lied before, about not having family to like,” He said and Emma felt her eyes sharpen, her hand ready to wander to whichever weapon would be the most necessary.

“What makes you say that?” she asked hesitantly, her eyes following him as he planted himself beside her on the thin mattress.

“I saw the picture in your pack,” He said and Emma mentally berated herself for it. “Of you and a boy. I assumed it was taken by the father, a token of a family he’d lost or needed to get back to, but it wasn’t,” She could feel as he began to smirk, the gentle chuckle leaving his throat as he looked at her appraisingly. “I must say, Love. The camera does you no justice,” And he winked, he actually fucking winked at her.

“That boy could be anyone.” She said, a little colder than before. She didn’t like how apparently easy she was to read, especially with how much she’d been told otherwise by those in Storybrooke.

“But he’s not,”

“And what makes you so sure?” She asked, her temper betraying her calm demeanour and her voice coming out hot. She didn’t want him knowing about Henry, she didn’t want something he could use against. She didn’t want to not make it home to her boy.

“Because you seem awfully motivated to get to a camp you’re not heading to where there is apparently nobody waiting for you,” If his smirk was anything to go by, he’d struck gold by her reaction. Emma didn’t even look at him, staring instead into the slowly dimming white light before her, counting as the tiny flies danced in its glow. “it’s more than looking for sanctuary as I am, and I don’t doubt that you can handle yourself out here,” he said and Emma saw in the corner of her eye how his fingers traced the small red line at his throat, not a cut, but enough of a mark that it was still visible. “So, there must be something in this Storybrooke, something precious you want to get back to.” He was looking at her now, but a lot softer than she’d expected, not the shit-eating-grin she’d thought he’d be wearing. “What’s his name?”

“Henry,” She said, albeit reluctantly, and the smile on his face grew. He’d chipped at her armour, found a way inside and he knew it. It infuriated her.

“His father?”

“Long gone.” She deadpanned, but not from sadness. She’d not even heard from Neal since the night he’d let her take the fall for her crime all those years ago. He didn’t even know Henry existed and as far as she was concerned, he didn’t need to, not now. There was now telling if Neal was even alive. He as in New York the last she’d known, but that had been a decade ago, besides, New York had been hit _hard._ Little to no one survived the outbreak there.

“I’m sorry,” Killian said and Emma knew he meant well by the statement, but she didn’t want to hear it. She’d loved Neal, that was true, but did she still love him? No. She could run into him now and barely bat an eyelash. This world was cold, and Emma knew if you didn’t adapt you died, and so she’d become colder. The world was snow and she was ice, harder and harsher. That was what the world had done to her.

“Don’t be.” She said but Killian was still looking at her pityingly, like a man who knew what it meant to lose someone. “Really, don’t be.” She pressed and Killian seemed to let the subject lie.

They stayed like that for hours, sitting in compatible silence, only talking when they felt the need for conversation. Together they ate, Emma managing to heat two cans of what she thought were baked beans over hot embers while Killian kept watch at the perimeters. Any talk of their lives before was forgotten, along with talk of what had been lost to the world. Their seemed to be an unspoken rule that those topics were not up for discussion. Killian did ask about Storybrooke though, but not about its resources or what it had to offer him, he asked what he could do to pull his weight, if they had space for more people such as himself and his friend and if the people were welcoming. It was like a n itch, Emma thought, just waiting for him to say something wrong, to trip up and let slip that he was in fact working for a rival camp who wanted anything but peace. But nothing.

 As it happened, Killian was able to tell the time by the sun positioning, something Emma had never quite gotten the hang of, along with navigating by the stars. Navy, he'd admitted, yet another thing Emma found impressive, but he didn't elaborate. Before dusk he turned on his radio, letting the static sound of a moment as he awaited his friend’s greeting.

“Tink?” He asked into the walkie-talkie, shooting Emma a quick look as she scoffed at the name. Tink, as in Tinkerbell. It was too good to be true. “Tink, are you there?” Just as Emma’s doubts were beginning to settle in, she heard the broken up, but clearly female and very accented voice through the device.

“ _Killian, you’re early,”_ The woman said and Emma was sure she sounded amused. If Emma had to guess, she’d say the woman was on the move, her voice sounding breathy through the receiver and the static to her voice told Emma she was far away. “ _And alive. That’s a good sign,”_

“Tink, I’ve found someone, someone who’s heading to Storybrooke.” Killian said and the receiver went very quiet, the kind of quiet that followed saying something stupid that usually led to awkward responses. That was in the old world, in this world, those kind of stupid comments usually meant being abandoned by whatever group you had wound up with.

“ _Who are they?”_ Was all she asked, her voice far less light than it was before. This was the voice Emma had expected to be on the other end of the walkie-talkie, the cautious and wary voice of someone who’d been hurt by this world before and wasn’t willing to let it happen again.

“Her name is Emma,” Killian said, sounding like a parent trying to coerce a child into meeting their friends or cousins who had come for a visit, it was almost amusing. “We don’t have to worry, Tink,” Killian said before looking back at Emma. With the sun outside setting below the line of the tree and the lamp beginning to run on empty, it was hard to see the expression on his face, but she was sure there was a smile there. “She’s a friend.” It wasn’t the word Emma would have used, in fact, she found herself more irritated by Killian’s company than anything else, but if that was what it took for Tink’s approval, so be it.

“ _Do you trust her?”_ Tink asked after another thoughtful silence and Killian’s hesitation probably didn’t do her any favours.

“Aye,” Killian said, looking to Emma again, “And I believe you can too,”

“ _If you trust her then she must be something special,”_ Tink said with a chuckle through the receiver and Emma couldn’t help but wonder just how hard it was to earn Killian Jones’ trust and most of all, how she’d managed to do so over the course of a single day. “ _I’ve found the road. I’ll be arriving in Storybrooke tomorrow,”_ Tink said through the receiver and Emma felt her chest tightening at the thought. “ _Once I find Regina it should all be settled. I’ll let her know you’re coming and that this Emma is with you.”_

“Okay, Tink,” Killian said and Emma was sure she heard the slight concern to his voice. He cared for this girl, that was sure, and the idea of her travelling alone probably scared the crap out of him. “Stay safe,” He said and was ready to turn the walkie-talkie off, but Emma snatched it from his hands before he had the chance.

“Tink?” She said, hoping the girl was still on the other end. It was an impulsive move, she knew, but she couldn’t help it, the worry had been knowing at her for days now, not knowing what would be waiting for her when she returned home.

“ _Emma?”_ Tink asked, rather pointlessly. Killian was only with one another person as far as she knew and Emma was certain their voices sounded different.

“Yeah, that’s me. Look, when you get to Storybrooke, I need you to do something for me,” Tink was silent on the other end, something Emma took as invitation to continue. “Find someone for me, his name’s Henry,” She said, biting hard on her lip a she fought back the tears pricking her eyes. Henry was the only one in this pitiful world who could make Emma cry now, anyone else as she could usually pass it off without thought. She hadn’t cried when Grace had turned and she’d been dry eyed as she put Jefferson out of his misery. Perhaps she was just hiding the sadness away right now, and sooner or later it would break through the dam she'd built and she’d drown in it. But that wasn’t now. Her tears were for her son and her son alone. “Tell him – Tell him I’m okay, and that I’ll be with him soon,”

“ _Who is he? A boyfriend?”_ Tink asked and Emma fought hard to roll her eyes. Even the face of damnation this girl was interested in gossip. Find entertainment were you can, Emma supposed.

“He’s my son,” Emma said blandly before a thought struck her. Graham, she needed him to know she was okay. What they had wasn’t love, Emma knew, but they’d started something and Emma knew that running off into the woods with nothing like a goodbye would leave a gnawing hole in his chest. Graham was good, he hadn’t let the world harden him the way Emma had, he’d held onto his compassion and honest grace in a way no one else had. He reminded Emma of what she’d lost to the world, and sometimes she needed him to remind her that brutality was not the way to go. The world made people harsh, they didn’t need her to do that same by killing without thought. _‘We don’t kill the living’_ , that’s what Graham had said, Emma could only hope that Henry would learn from his guidance since the two seemed inseparable. “But while you’re asking, find a man named Graham, tell him the same. Tell him not to come looking for me. I’ll find my way back.”

“ _Anything else?”_ Tink asked, but she didn’t sound annoyed or even inconvenienced. She would be let into Storybrooke by simply knowing Emma’s name, knowing Graham and Henry’s was just going to be the tip of the iceberg.

“That’s it,” Emma said, smiling despite herself. They would know she was okay, something she’d been worrying herself sick over for days, horrified that they may have dug an extra grave for her in the park beside everyone else that they had lost, scared her son would cry for her when she was still breathing. “Tell them I sent you and you’ll have no problem getting in.”

“ _Thank you,”_ Tink said and Emma wanted to laugh. Thank you was not a phrase that was heard often nowadays. ‘Fuck you’ and ‘Kill you’ were, but not thank you. It was a nice feeling to know there was still ever a glimmer of gratitude left in the world.

“And thank you,” Emma returned, the words feeling odd on her tongue. “We’ll keep the radio open for the next twenty-four hours, the battery should last that long, and then you let us know when you get to the gates. I’ll talk to who’s on watch if I have to.

“ _Got it. I’ll see you soon, Emma. I’ll see you too, Killian,”_ She said and then the line went dead as Tink turned her radio off.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Killian said, taking the offered receiver from Emma’ outstretched hand.

“Do you?” Emma countered before sitting herself down on the thin matters, barely having realised she’d been pacing as she spoke anxiously to Tink. Killian nodded and it was all Emma needed right now to let the worrisome beast in her stomach lie back down. “Then I’m open to hope.” It was a long shot, and if Emma had learnt anything from her time with Mary-Margret, it was that hope was a very strong word. But if it helped her sleep at night, who was she to complain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, Gold is going to be this story's counterpart of Neegan, purely because I'm a big fan of the line up which will be happening later in the story and I'm really looking forward to it.   
> Each character in this story has a walking dead counterpart, feel free to ask me about any of them that aren't obvious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Update! 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

There were times when Tink believed she was too trusting. She'd thought it when she found Killian, lying bleeding and incoherent in the woods, his hand gone and his heart broken. She could feel his fever with her hand not even touching his forehead and she'd braced herself for the worst. But he'd survived, he'd fought through it and lived to fight another day, only now he had her by his side.

Tink was feeling that familiar sensation of conflicted trust as she crossed the brow of the hill, the settlement of Storybrooke sitting almost contently not even a mile down the road. Having passed the sign hours ago, Tink was wondering just what the town would be like, how desolate the land would be and how guarded. From where she stood now, the town looked like a fortress. Walls made of slightly rusted tin stood high, watch towers in every possible corner. Parked and crashed cars littered the sides of the road approaching what Tink had assumed was the main gate, sharpened branches gammed through the metal and windows alike. Tink was beginning to wonder what they were for until she saw the biters, dead – or, more so – hanging off of the spikes. They were traps, and quite efficient ones by the looks of it.

Tink was only five cars away from the gates when she heard the sound of a rifle cocking and a voice above the low wind around her.

"Who are you?" The voice called and Tink trained her eyes to the watch tower. She couldn't see from this distance just who was up there, be it a man or a woman, but they had a gun and it was trained most likely to Tink's head. That was enough to go on for now.

"My names Tink," She called back, pulling the green triangular scarf from around her mouth so she could be heard. "I'm looking for someone. Her name's Regina!"

"Do you have a camp?" The voice called back and Tink could tell now that it was a man, the sunlight behind him illuminating his curly hair golden. He had an accent, Tink could tell, but not like her own and not like Killian's either. This one was different, Irish she thought, maybe Scottish.

"No. Me and my friend were heading here, we've come from Portland." She said. It wasn't a lie. After she had found Killian in the woods, she and Killian had found a car and driven most of the way before their car had broken down and they'd been unable to locate another one that was within Tink's hotwiring capabilities. And so they'd continued on foot, running into no trouble until the past week when the horde of biters had overwhelmed them.

"Where's your friend?" The man asked again. Emma's advice was coming back to her now. Whoever this Emma was, she had to be something special for them to open the gates at the sound of her name, even more so for Killian to trust her.

"He went to the east. He's with a woman from here," She took the man's silence as invitation for her to continue. Or maybe he was just trying to get a better shot at her head. There was only one way she'd find out. "Emma. She told me to find a boy called Henry and a man named Graham." Silence ensued, and Tink was left wondering if the man was still there or if he'd gone, whether to find someone with more authority or perhaps just to leave her to the biters, Tink didn't know.

Then she heard the screech and rattling of the gates as they were pulled aside, leaving space for a person to pass through.

"Emma sent you?" The voice said from beside the gate, and Tink took the question as invitation to approach. The man no longer had a gun trained on her, something Tink counted as a win. "She's alive?"

"I'm looking for sanctuary for me and my friend. He'll be bringing Emma back with him in a day or so."

"But she's safe. She's alive?" The man pressed, his face far too hopeful for such a hopeless world.

"From what I heard." She said, trying a soft smile when she saw the man's face break out into a grin. "Now, either Emma's a lot older than she sounds, or you must be Graham?" she said, watching as his face beamed, like a man who'd been locked in the dark finally seeing the sun.

"That's me," He said, still behind the fences, but Tink could tell he'd already lightened up around her by nothing more than the mention of Emma's name and well-being. "You can come in," He said, pulling the meshed gate aside with a rattle, allowing Tink to pass through.

"I didn't think it'd be so easy to get in," Tink said with a quiet laugh, watching as Graham slid the mesh gate home, the reinforced metal one following after, lock tight with a dead bolt.

"It's not me you need to convince," Graham said, swinging his gun back round of his front by the strap on his shoulder. "You may know our madam mayor, but that doesn't mean she's going to welcome you with open arms." Tink nodded her understanding before following Graham down the road that she assumed was once Stoyrbrooke's main street, window boarded up, some houses burnt to the ground and another with their rooves caved in like sandcastles in the tide. She could imagine it was once a beautiful place, full of hearty local stores and children laughing in the street. Now it was no less a ghost town than any other Tink had seen on her travels – and she'd seen a lot.

Tink herself had never been to Storybrooke, in fact, her and Regina had only really met on a couple of occaision, the last of which left Tink without a job. And yet, at the end of the world, she'd found herself crawling back to her with her hands held in surrender. It was almost pathetic, and Killian would definitely chide her for it, but she could see no other route to take. This place, this small sleepy town was safe. It was the haven she and Killian had been searching for. Amongst the rubble and charred remains, Tink could find a home. She could find sanctuary.

By the time they'd reached the town hall – the only building to seem entirely intact if you looked past the blood stains up the white walls - the majority of the residents seemed to have left their homes and shelters to investigate the new arrival. Among those was Regina, standing in the entrance of the town hall, her hands clasped in front of her in the same sincere way Tink remembered, her dark eyes watching Tink like a hawk s they reached the town hall.

"Tinkerbell," Regina said, smiling tightly around the words. It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but Tink hadn't exactly expected one. She heard a couple of scoffs at her name, but that was the least of her worries. Laughter was a welcome sound these days, even if it was at her expense. She'd do anything to hear just a little more joy in the world.

"It's Tink, actually," She corrected as offhandedly as she could, watching Regina's still perfectly shaped eyebrow raise. You could never tell just by looking that Regina was living in a nightmare. Though a bit straggly at the ends, Regina's hair remained neat, tied back at the nape of her neck. Her skin was clean and her black pant-suit seemed to have fared well against the rest of the world. It made Tink wonder how much of the outdoors she'd experienced since this all began. Had she even killed a biter herself, or was she the kind to hide away until the action was over.

"Well, Tink," Regina said with obvious distaste, looking from her thick soled boots, up her tattered jeans to her ripped and mangled cardigan and finally the scarf around her throat. She knew she looked nothing like the smiling, curly haired pixie of a girl Regina had just met, but that was to be expected of this world. "What brings you to Storybrooke?" Tink knew a fake smile when she saw one, and judging by Regina's narrowed eyes and the tightness to her cheeks, this was about a fake as it would get before she began to snarl.

"Sanctuary," Tink said and Regina had the audacity to roll her eyes. It was a small, human action that made Tink's blood curdle in her veins. They may not be close, but Regina was acting as though Tink had just insulted her, not asked for help. But perhaps for Regina those two things were awfully close. "For me and my friend," She said, tilting her chin higher. She could hear the whispers of the townsfolk around her and could even see children amongst the fray, their clothes ripped and faces dirty. It was a harsh sight for a far harsher world.

"And why should I allow that?" Regina said, her voice tight as she Tink stood taller, squaring her shoulders. It was disgusting, Tink thought, the arrogance of this woman. The threat in her voice as evident. She was willing to throw Tink to the wilderness without a second thought. "We're already running low on rations and there is barely enough to feed who we already have with us,"

"I can raid," Tink said, having been on plenty of raids alongside Killian as they made their way across the state. "I've lived out there. I know how to handle myself and something tells me you don't," She said a little harsher than she'd meant to and judging by the darkening of Regina's eyes, she'd hit a nerve. She was playing with fire, she knew, questioning the Mayor's authority in front of those she'd no doubt sworn to protect. "We can help you survive if you give us a chance."

"This _friend,_ " Regina said harsly, "Who are they?"

"His name's Killian," Tink said, taking a step forward, feeling awfully like a criminal in a court room full of judges. "He's only a day away. Let him speak for himself when he gets here with Emma."

"Emma?" Regina said, shocked, her voice turning cold as her face seemed to visibly pale. "Emma is alive?" But Tink was saved her reply by the sound of a young voice behind the mayor.

"You know my mom?" He called, rushing out from the town hall and rushing past Regina. The mayor tried to stop him, it seemed, but the boy broke from her grip, staring up at Tink with his soft eyes. "She's alive?"

"Yes," Tink said with a smile, watching the hope flare in the young boy's eyes. This was Henry, she presumed. "She's with my friend. He'll bring her home."

"I knew it!" He exclaimed and it seemed his joy was contagious, the crowd around Tink breaking into whispers and hugs, claps on friends back and kisses on cheeks. Whoever Emma was to this people, it seemed they weren't ready to have let her go. "I told you she'd make it!" The boy beamed at Graham who was smiling back at him just as broadly, placing a hand on the boy's small shoulder.

"I never doubted her," He replied before Henry barrelled into him, wrapping his thin little arms around the man's stomach. Graham didn't even hesitate, hugging the small boy back. Henry's father, Tink guess judging by the same soft dark hair (Though Graham's seemed curlier) and hopeful eyes.

" _Tink!"_ Her radio buzzed, making the group jump.

"It's Killian," Tink said, unsnapping the walkie from her belt and holding the button down. "Killian. I made it, I'm in Stroybrooke."

 _"Thank God,"_ He said, but barely took a breath before he started rambling again " _Tink, is there a doctor there? A nurse, a medic, anyone?"_

"I don't know. Killian what is it? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" She asked, dread in her voice at the prospect of Killian being wounded or worse. They may not have known one another long, but he seemed to be the only friend that she had in this world, she wasn't quite ready to lose that.

" _It's not me."_ He said and Tink exhaled before the read settled once more. If it wasn't Killian then it had to be – " _It's Emma. She's not waking up."_

* * *

Emma and Killian had barely made it a few hours into their walk before her steps began to falter. She brushe doff any and all of Killian's questioning, but he could see how her shouldes slumped more and the pain was written all voer her face, even as she spoke to him.

"How many walkers have you killed?" She asked, sounding a little breathless, her gun in hand at the ready as she walked beside him.

"Too many," He replied, remembering how he'd attacked the beasts without mercy. They maybe dead, but they were human once. They had lives and families, a person of their own, and he was butchering them to save his own skin without a thought. It shouldn't bother him, but it did.

"How many people have you killed?" she asked next, stumbling slightly as she stepped over a rock. Killian caught her, but she snatched her arm away immediately, the moment dying in a second.

"Before or after?" He asked with a self-depreciating chuckle. He knew the question was serious, especially in a world like this one, but if Emma's lie detector was to be believed, there was no use in lying to her.

"Both," She breathed out. Killian almost didn't hear her she was so quiet. He turned just in time to see her fall to her knees, her eyes half lidded as she blinked lazily at nothingness. Call it instinct, call it a mild sense of duty – hell, call it caring – but Killian was by her side in an instant, his arm catching her around her shoulders as she began to slump.

"Swan?" He said, feeling the heat of her skin through even her leather jacket like fire, sweat rolling down her forehead and plastering her hair to her face. "Swan? Emma?" He tried shaking her, hearing her moan weakly her eye open but seemingly unseeing. Without much thought, he unzipped her jacket, pulling the material off and away from her shoulders, revealing the bandages he's helped her wrap the night before. The very same bandages that were currently soaked through with red, the blood seeping into her grey tank top and smothering her pale shoulder.

Wihtout a lot of forethought, he scrambled for the radio at hs belt, paying that Tink had followed Emmas advice and left it one.

"Tink!" He said desperately, watching as Emma's eyes slipped closed, her breathing loud enough that he could hear it.

" _Killian."_ Her voice replied and Killian thanked each and every god that may be smiling down on him for that. " _I made it. I'm in Storybrooke."_ She said, sounding far more relieve that Killian thought possible, especially while he was in the middle of a crisis.

"Thank God," He said with relief before his voice became grave and business-like, something that undoubtedly shocked the petite blonde. "Is there a Doctor there? A nurse, a medic, anyone?"

" _I don't know."_ She replied, sounding a little more frantic. He was grateful to that. Hearing someone so calm in the face of a travesty made him uneasy. Panic was alright, panic was good. It was panic that got the adrenaline following and got shit done. You only needed to know how to control it. " _Killian, what is it? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"_

"It's not me," He said, looking as the sweat continued to gather on Emma's face, dotting her skin with droplets before the rolled off of her cheeks. "It's Emma, She's not waking up." There was silence on the other end then, nothing but static as he waited impatiently for a reply.

" _Killian,"_ a voice that was distinctly male and definitely not Tink's chimed up and Killian felt his heart crawl to his throat. " _My name's Graham, I'm Emma's – you know what, that doesn't matter. What's wrong with her?"_

"I think her wound might be infected," Killian said, looking again at the bandage but too worried to touch it. Lord knows how much pain she was in and he didn't want to cause anymore aggravation to a likely already furious wound.

 _"Wound?"_ The voice at the other end said, sounding horrified. Killian was surprised. A wound in this world often meant one thing – a bite. " _What wound? What happened?"_ Of course, this was the other man Emma had told Tink to seek out, a boyfriend, no doubt.

"She said she was shot."

" _Shot!"_ Clearly it had been an accidental shooting, which was good. The last thing Killian wanted was to be walking right into a line of fire with a woman someone wanted very much dead.

"Yeah, it started to bleed and now it doesn't seem ready to stop." There was silence once more over the line and Killian could feel as Emma began to shiver against his thigh despite the burning of her skin.

" _Get to the road."_ Graham said, his voice steely. Killian knew they couldn't be far now. They'd have reached it, in fact, had Emma not be lagging behind so much, stumbling over her own feet as they crossed the forest floor. " _We're coming."_

It should have sounded reassuring, but all Killian could think of was how exposed they were already and that was with the shelter of the forest. To make it to the edge of the forest and the road would be risky enough, but to do so while carrying a mostly unconscious woman in his arms -he's be lucky to survive. And yet, he didn't hesitate in prying off his jacket, wrapping the thick material around her much smaller frame. He pocketed her gun in the back of his waist band beside his own before hoisting her up in his arms and setting off in the direction he'd been heading, all the while listening for biters prowling the forest.

It had taken Killian the best part of half an hour to finally reach the road, by which point he was almost certain he wasn't alone. There were bites nearby, he could tell, stumbling and groaning their way through the forest behind him. How many of them, however, was undetermined. Emma had told him that she'd led away a herd of them. All he could hope was that she had succeeded in doing so thoroughly.

There were two of them Killian could see on the opposite side of the road, the heads lolling on their shoulders as the stench of their rotting flesh hit him on the breeze. The only problem was, if he could smell them then the chances were they could smell him too. His theory proved correct when they began wandering towards the road, their dead eyes looking at Killian as he stood frozen, Emma in his arms and no way to escape. He was the definition of a sitting duck.

Checking they were the only ones, Killian gently lay Emma down before pulling his knife from it' sheath on his belt. It didn't take him long to dispose of them both, but he couldn't know how many more were to come and he had nowhere to go. There was selfish part of himself that told he could leave her in the road like bait, let the biters have their way with her while he made his escape. He hardly even knew this woman and yet the thought alone made him feel sick to stomach. He was saved any more vicious temptation by the roaring sounds of engines further down the road. A few moments later and the silhouette of a motorcycle was visible, followed by the grumbling of a clearly unhappy truck engine as they rattled their way towards him.

By the time both vehicles had come to stop, Killian already had a shivering Emma in his arms, her eyes open but unreacting to those around her.

"Emma!" a voice called, followed by the slamming of a truck door before a man with blonde hair curling over his ears was in front of Killian, his fingers reaching for Emma's pulse point. It was a pointless act, Killian thought, Emma's breathing far too loud for her to be anything but alive. But he supposed it was reassuring to check. "We need to get her back. Now!" The man said before gesturing to the back of the truck where a blanket had been laid out alongside a small first aid kit that Killian thought would be of very little use. "You, in the back with her. Dr Whale said to remove the bandage and apply a fresh one if she's still bleeding." He said pointing to Killian who was slightly surprised by the notion.

"You can't be serious, Dave?" The man on the motorcycle said, pulling his red scarf down from across his face. "We don't know this guy. How can we trust him with her?"

"He called us for help and he didn't have to." The man – Dave – said, already opening up the back of the truck for Killian to lie Emma inside. "He could have left her to die out here and we'd be none the wiser. Besides, we both need to drive back."

RedScarf didn't seem thrilled by the idea, but didn't argue either, pulling his scarf back over his face and turning his bike around as Killian clambering into the back of the truck and sitting with his back against the cab, Emma lying in his lap as feverish as ever.

"We've got to go." Dave said before starting the engine and then they were off down the road. Killian couldn't hear much with the wind in his ear as he fumbled with the bandage around Emma's shoulder. Peeling the sodden material away with his one hand, Killian fought the urge to gasp at the sight. The bullet wound was an ugly mass of blood and torn flesh that still oozed with when jolted. Spanning from the hole were dark lines that Killian quickly picked up to be Emma's veins. Blood poisoning. He'd served long enough in the navy to know what it looked like, his own brother having suffered form it after a nasty cut to the arm while out at sea. They'd managed to save him, but Killian began to wonder what point there was to that as he died not three years later in the midst of this hell hole.

"Hold on, Swan," Killian said, tearing open a gauze pad with his teeth and dabbing the wound. She flinched, but not too much that it was inconvenient, nothing but a slight moan and a lolling of her head. The roads weren't as smooth as they once were, so trying to re-bandage a wound on a feverish woman with only the one hand was something of a challenge. The final result wasn't his finest handiwork, he had to admit, but it would do.

"You," Even with the roar of the wind rolling off of the cab of the truck Killian could hear Emma's faint voice. Her eyes were slightly open, the un bouncing off of her irises and illuminating them almost yellow. Even in her deluded, sweat sodden state, Killian could never deny she was a beautiful woman. She had a fire in her that he'd not seen in a long time, even with Tink, and it was intriguing. Enough so that he risked his own life to try and get her to safety when the logical solution was to leave her dead in the woods somewhere for the biters to feed on. It was a dog eat dog world and Killian wasn't interested in being someone else's dinner. "My saviour," She breathed with a lofty smile.

Killian had to chuckle at that, watching as her eyes fell closed once more, her breathing still as ragged as before as her head fell limply in his lap. The rest of the drive was blissfully – and a little unnervingly – uneventful. There were no biters on the road and none emerging from the trees, no birds flew overhead and aside from the wind rushing past his ears and the still harsh breathing from the woman in his lap, everything was quiet.

When the engines of both the bike and the truck began to slow, Killian grasped that they had arrived. He couldn't move easily in his predicament, but he could see cars lining the sides of the road, spikes lodged in the metal and hanging off of those spikes, from what Killian could tell, were biters. They weren't stationary for long before they were passing through what sounded like a sliding gate, a collection of people already milling around and talking far louder than Killian was used to.

"Emma?" A voice called as Killian tried to lift the blanketed woman back up off his lap and into his arms. A man arrived at the back of the truck, his tired eyes scanning Emma's face like a starving man would a buffet. "Emma!" He called, already reaching for her. Judging by his obvious anxiety and the horrified look on his face, Killian was willing to be this was Graham.

"Here, take her, mate," Killian said, passing Emma down in her (presumed) boyfriends waiting arms.

"Thank you," Graham said, and then he was gone, racing up the road with Emma in his arms like she was a sleeping child.

"Killian!" He'd barely gotten his footing from stepping out of the truck when he felt Tink's arms wrap around his neck, skinny and childlike, just as he remembered. "We made it," She said, beaming up at him with her bright eyes. He'd been so wrapped up in surviving this mess that he'd forgotten just how much hope she could hold in them. It was unnerving but utterly intoxicating and Killian couldn't help but smile back at her.

"You're Killian," A small voice said, but it wasn't posed as a question. Turning, Killian saw a small boy standing up to just above his elbow, with soft brown hair and mucky cheeks, his plaid shirt torn and his jaw – so like Emma's – set.

"I am." He replied, releasing Tink to look at the lad properly.

"You saved my mum," Killian wasn't given the chance to reply this time and for the second time in barely five minutes, her felt someone's arms as they wrapped around him, the small boy wrapping his arms around Killian's waist. "Thank you," The boy mumbled against his jacket and Killian's hands hovered over the boy's shoulders. He'd never had anything much to do with children, it was hard to know how to react.

"Yes, thank you," Dave said appearing beside Henry, a hand on the boy's shoulder to pry him away. He went easily enough before Dave reached a hand out towards Killian. "Killian,"

"It was no trouble, Dave," Killian said, clasping his outstretched hand.

"It's David, actually," The man said with a smile, and an earnest one at that. "And you've already met Henry and August," He said gesturing to the lad and RedScarf who seemed far more interested in his bike than the meeting happening around him. "And this is my wife, Mary-Margret."

"Thank you for bringing her home," The small woman said from his said, her white shirt stained in multiple places with what was presumably dried blood, her likely once styled short black hair now wispy and curling at the ends. "She means a lot to us."

"Aye," Killian said, looking to the crowd of people who had appeared to welcome Emma home. It was more people than he'd seen since this whole debacle started. There were men and women with children clutching onto their hands, a girl with faded highlights in her hair and an old woman with a crossbow. This was truly the sanctuary that Killian and Tink had been searching for. Now all that was left was proving they were both worthy of being a part of it. And something told Killian that saving Emma might not be enough. Especially, Killian could tell, if the sincere looking woman loitering on the edge of the group had anything to do about it. "That she does."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any typos, I'll be giving it another read through in a day or so.


	4. Chapter 4

"And so, I'm going to ask you what I asked her," Regina said, standing in the town hall before all of the Storybrooke residents, Killian and Tink standing at the front as the others remained sat. It seemed awfully mundane considering what was happening to the world just outside of the door. "Why should I grant you sanctuary in my town," Killian opened his mouth to reply, even went so far as to take a steadying breath, but was saved the trouble.

"Because he saved Emma's life," David – not Dave – spoke up, not even needing to push his way through the crowd as it parted for him, his wife close behind. "He brought her back to us when we thought she was gone."

"As touching as your gratitude is for saving Miss. Swan, I'd hardly say it's enough to warrant welcoming two newcomers to our society," Regina said with a tight lipped smile that Killian recognised all too well from the not-so-caring social workers of his childhood. Regina was the authority figure here, and by the sharp angle of her eyebrows and the pinch to her lips, she was not enjoying being challenged.

"Why not?" David's wife, Mary-Margret, said, her eyes narrowing at Regina in a way that the stern woman clearly didn't take too kindly to.

"Because rations are low as it is and we're wasting our already depleting medicine supply on Miss Swan's recovery."

" _Wasting?"_ David all but spat at her, and Killian could almost feel as the people of Stroybrooke rallied behind him, ready to jump to Emma's defence. It was strange, Killian thought, from what he's seen of Emma, she was definitely leader material - David too - and here this woman was, dressed far too formally for this world on fire, calling all of the shots. "You really think Emma is a _waste?"_

"My mom should decide," Killian hadn't even noticed that Henry was in the town hall, let alone that he'd somehow materialised between him and Tink.

"Henry," Regina said, her voice softening as she reached out for the young boy. "What are you doing here?"

"Killian saved my mom's life," Henry said, slipping out from beneath Regina's arms, bumping into Killian's leg in his haste to get away from Regina. Killian wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from Storybrooke, but this – a neurotic, tight lipped mayor that seemed awfully fond of Emma's son – wasn't it. "If anyone gets to decide, it's her."

"Well," Regina said, clasping her hands in front of her. "Miss Swan is not in any state to be deciding anything right now."

"Then we wait until she is," Another woman said, stepping forward, her head held high as Regina looked at her blankly. It was getting rather obvious that very few – if any – of these people huddled in the dark town hall would stand up to their mayor. And by the way Regina was gnawing the inside of her cheek and scowling like a petulant child, he was going to guess she didn't like it one bit. "Emma is the only one here who can vouch for him. She owes him her life."

"Fine," Regina said tightly, smiling in the kind of way that didn't reach her eyes. "We'll postpone this meeting until Miss Swan is back with us." Killian could feel Tink's elbow as she jabbed him, smiling enough that he could see it in the corner of his eye. He'd never not be amazed by how bright her smile managed to be, lacking the cynicism and bitterness that his own had taken on over the past year or more. Time was something of an irrelevancy now. If it wasn't for his years in the navy and hours learning to track the sun and the stars, Killian wouldn't even know what time it was. "Until then the two of you are on probation. You step out of line and we'll throw you back out into the world without so much a toothpick to defend yourselves. Clear?"

"Crystal," Tink said, her smile still bright but Killian could feel the edge to it. If Regina didn't back far enough away, he had a feeling it would be drawing blood. Now all that was left was to wait for the ever loved Emma Swan to come back to the land of living. Her fate had been in his hands and now it was time to turn the tables.

* * *

Waking up was disorientating, to say the least. To wake up in a hospital was nothing short of bewildering, especially since every hospital (as far as Emma knew) had either been overrun, emptied of any and all resources or even destroyed right at the beginning of the end. But this was Storybrooke, the hospital seemed to be one of the few crucial places still intact. Or as intact as any building could be. The main reception had been crushed beneath the weight of the hospital's first and second floor, leaving nothing but a mass of rubble and destruction behind. The main wards had been lost too, doors chained shut and blood splatters coating the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting. It was always the hospitals that fell first, Emma had realised, always full of people of who thought there was hope of saving those who had been bitten. It was amazing how you found both the smartest and the most naïve people hospitals. But Storybrooke has salvaged theirs just enough to remain functional. There was only a single ward open, barely a dozen beds pushed back with their heads against the walls and medical trolleys shoved anywhere they could fit.

The walkers had been cleared out of the hospital par Regina's request during the first purge, leaving the hospital in ruins but less of a time bomb, but there were still resources lurking in the fallen rooms, medical cupboards yet to be emptied, cabinets yet to be raided. Resources were low and yet, Emma could feel the pressure of the needle jabbed uncomfortably into her arm that stung with every jostling movement.

"What the –" She said, already pushing herself into sitting position, going so far as to reach for the taped down IV, ready to rip it from her veins. She was stopped, however, by a surprisingly soft skinned hand against hers.

"Emma," Mary-Margret said, her voice still the softest sound Emma had heard since the world fell apart. "You're okay," She sounded surprised, a far from comforting sound. "I'll go get Doctor Whale." She said and then she was gone. Emma had barely even opened her eyes fully before she saw the woman disappearing through the fire escape that now posed as the hospitals main entrance and exit.

"Mom?" Emma was fully awake now, her head a little fuzzy as she pushed herself to sit up properly.

"Hey, Kid," Emma said with a smile, watching as Henry climbed up onto the hospital bed and looking up at her with his big brown eyes. "You look like crap," She said with a laugh, but it was enough to erase the worried crinkle to Henry's young brow.

"Did you really get shot?" He asked and Emma remembered the hole in her shoulder, currently numb no doubt from whatever Doctor Whale had dripping into her blood stream. "Graham said you were."

"Graham's right," Emma said, peeling back the collar of a clean shirt she didn't recognise as her own to reveal the far neater bandage work, undoubtedly tied by a man with two hands and far more experience.

"Cool!" Henry said, his still small fingers reaching out to skin the edges of the bandage. Had it not been for the medicine, Emma was sure her skin would have smarted at his touch.

"We really need to work on your definition of cool," Emma chuckled, slipping her shirt back on properly and trying hard to ignore the ache that had settled deep in her bones. "What happened? Where's Killian?"

"He's with Regina." He said and Emma was surprised by how little unease was in his voice. The last time she'd spoken to Henry about Regina, he'd not been sure he trusted the woman at all. He thought she was too clean and he said her smile made him nervous. It would seem a lot had changed since she'd been gone. "They want you to decide if he stays or not,"

"What kind of a questions is that?" Emma said, abashed it was even up for discussion. They were survivors, they needed the numbers, and Killian had made it clear that he was both willing to fight and happy to help her.

"Not a question, Miss Swan," Regina said as she made her way into the room, Doctor Whale and Mary-Margret on her heels. "More a debate."

"What is there to debate?" She asked, already sick of Regina's patronising tone, something she did her absolute best to avoid on a day to day basis. Lucky for her, when the shit hit the fan Regina tended to hide from the fight, saving her own arse in the process, but Emma was always out there, fighting so that they might all live to see another sunrise. It was safe to say that Regina and Emma did not see eye to eye.

"Welcoming strangers into our town doesn't come without it's risks." Regina argued, her hands clasped in front of yet another unharmed pant-suit. "We are running low on rations as it is and we don't know if we can feed two extra mouths,"

"Shouldn't they be here to say their piece." Emma ground out. She was sure how long she'd been out, but she knew that her painkillers were beginning to wear off, starting with a throbbing in her shoulder and a pounding in her head like a tiny man had taken to the inside of her skull with a less tiny sledgehammer.

"We are," Killian said, stepping through the doorway to the hospital room, a smaller, blonder woman behind him Emma presumed to be Tink. Going by Regina's tightly pursed lips and the creasing of her brow, she hadn't wanted Killian and Tink inside for this 'debate'.

"Well, Mr. Jones. Tinkerbell," She said and Emma could tell the petite blonde didn't take too kindly to the name at all. "Why should we allow you to stay. What stops you from being a danger to out society." Emma fought really hard not to scoff at that and she failed, barely managing to stifle the sound with a cough. Society was far from the word she'd use, rabble perhaps, stragglers maybe, but a society implied civility and culture, something Storybrooke was beginning to lack. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"Too many to count." Tink said and Killian nodded his agreement.

"How many people have you killed."

"None." Tink said but this time Killian remained stoic. He didn't nod, he didn't speak and he didn't look at anyone else. He was anything but subtle.

"And you?" Regina asked in the same patronising tone that made Emma's gears grind most unpleasantly. "How many people have you killed."

"Let's end the formalities and say I'm likely not the kind of man you want around." Killian said, reacting like a dog would after backing it into a corner and poking it with a stick. Lashing out.

"Thank you for making this easy for us, Mr. Jones." Regina said, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

"This isn't over," Emma said, far stronger than she's thought she could as she forced herself to sit up on her own and without the pillows support. "We are not our actions, not anymore." She said knowing her words would strike home. There wasn't anyone in this room – except maybe Henry – who hadn't done something in this room in the name of survival, something they regretted. Something they could never take back. "The line between life and death is getting awfully thin and we need people who are willing to save us from that tipping point. We don't have the luxury to be picky about our allies anymore."

"You make quite the leader, Swan," Killian appraised, but she wasn't in the mood for his compliments, not right now.

"But if you do anything to jeopardise the lives of anyone here, I'll kill you myself." The smile fell quickly from his face then, but it was clear the message was received and understood. "You guys can go now." She said and with a quick nod from both of them they were gone, back out onto the streets of Storybrooke with Regina's glare burning a hole through the door they'd closed behind them.

"I don't think you're in your right mind to be making these decisions," Regina said once they were out of earshot, her glare like daggers as she rounded on Emma like a furious headmistress, hands on hips and all. Emma, however, was having none of it, already untaping the IW from her arm and pulling the needle out like ripping off a bandaid.

"I'm in a perfect state of mind, Regina. It's you who isn't thinking clearly." She argued back, pushing the covers back and moving to climb from the bed. Mary-Margret was by her side in a second, her arm around Emma's back to support her should she fall. It had, after all, bee just over two days since Killian had brought Emma back in the first place, but it was good to see that she was recovering fast. "We need more people. We've lost one of her best fighters already and if we're attacked again who's going to help protect this town? _You?_ "

"I do enough for this town," Regina fought back, all of the calm burnt from her voice by the rage she'd undoubtedly been harbouring since Emma had left. "Now Tinkerbell is enough to take in, without welcoming a killer,"

"We are all killers." Emma spat and Regina recoiled slightly. It wasn't entirely untrue. This town had been threatened before by a man who went uncannily by the name of Blackbeard. He and his group had laid siege on the town to take it for themselves. And they'd fought back and they'd won. For the most part, at least. The battle had weakened some of the perimeter and that was all it had taken for the walkers to break in, costing them Grace and in turn, Jefferson. "Killian knows how to fight, but he kept his compassion." Emma said, her voice quieting as her pulse calmed once more and she slipped from Mary-Margret's grip. "That was hard enough to find before everything fell apart. I say he stays."

"Is that so?" Regina challenged, baring her teeth slightly on the left side of her mouth as she sneered at Emma readying for a fight. If that was what it came to, Emma was sure she could manage, infected gunshot or not.

"Seconded." Mary-Margret spoke up, catching Regina by surprise. Even Doctor Whale who was busy taking tabs of the medicine he'd been using on Emma stopped to raise an eyebrow.

"Thirded!" Henry chimed in excitedly, even going so far as to raise his hand like the smartest boy in the classroom.

"Kid, I don't think that's how this works," Emma said with a smile, feeling her anger dissipating.

"The point still stands." Mary-Margret said, still looking at Regina with a contempt she didn't know the kind woman was capable of. "Killian and Tinkerbell are staying."

"Well, Madam Mayor. Should you tell them, or should I?" Emma said with a triumphant little smile of her own. She was sure she could hear Regina's teeth grinding with the aggravation. She was sure in that moment that she and Mary-Margret may just be the two people Regina hated most in the shit storm that the world had become.

* * *

"So, how's your mum doing?" Graham asked as she and Henry made their way up through the woods beside Storybrooke, guns slung around their backs ready to catch whatever food they could. It had been a long shot, Graham knew when he asked that the chances of Emma agreeing would be slim, but Henry wanted to learn how to hunt, and Graham saw no issue with the boys enthusiasm. And after a serious weighing of pros and cons from Emma, a strict intervention from Regina that went smoothly ignored, Emma had agreed.

"She's good," Henry said, swinging his knife against the ferns either side of the dirt track they were walking. "She says it doesn't hurt anymore, but I can see it. She's saying no to Doctor Whale's painkillers because she doesn't want to waste them."

"Your mum was shot," Graham said, far from surprised by Emma's stubbornness. "I'd hardly call that a waste. Would you?"

"No. But we can't make her take them," Henry reasoned, still not paying as much attention to what Graham was doing that expected. From the boy's enthusiasm, Graham would have thought Henry would be dogging his every move. Although, they had been traipsing around the woods for a good hour or so already, and the boy was undoubtedly getting bored by the lack of action.

"I don't think anyone can make your mum do anything." Graham laughed and even Henry smiled up at him, his soft brown hair falling down past his ears now having gone months without a trim.

"She'd rather be in pain than see someone else go without what they need," Henry said, but he didn't sound proud about his mother's constant martyrdom. He sounded sad, as though there was nothing he hated more than seeing his mother in any form of pain. "She's strong like that."

"That she is," Graham agreed, scanning the ground for any signs of life. He'd spotted some deer tracks a little further back and some broken branches as well. "Hey, stop," Graham said, holding up his hand as Henry stopped dead. "Over there," He said, gesturing lightly towards a sound of rustling branches. "Stay close, it might just be a walker."

But it wasn't. Edging as silently as he could, Graham stepped off of the track and into the underbrush, Henry close on his heels, his gun already un-holstered. By some strange miracle, it had been Emma's idea to give Henry a gun back before she'd disappeared driving away the herd. She's even gone so far as to teach him how to use it. Nothing extreme, only basic target practice and how to turn the safety off, but it was enough. The boy held the weapon like it was never to be without it, far too comfortably for a boy his age. It would have broken Graham's heart in the old world. But this wasn't the old world, and Graham was nothing short of glad that the boy knew how to defend himself.

Graham raised his gun, the buck that stood barely ten feet away already lined up and ready for him to take out. It was grazing, not having even noticed the two of them standing there, holding its life in their hands. But before Graham could take the shot, he felt a hand at his elbow. Looking down he saw Henry, his soft eyes wide and full of excitement as he pointed to the deer. It wasn't long before Graham got the message. He nodded his agreement and couldn't help the swell of pride he felt when Henry's face lit up. He had been such a fearful little boy when they'd met, willing to speak out what he believed but only from behind the safety of his mother's leg. A few months was all it took for him to finally grow, to spread his wings enough to hoer just outside of the nest. He was a child, that was clear and he still needed his mother, but Henry was turning out to be a strong boy, the kind that Graham was sure could make it in this world.

"Go ahead," He whispered, loud enough that only Henry would here. With a nod of agreement, Henry stepped forward, his gun raised and ready. But then he stopped, his aim wavering as he just looked, drinking in the sight before him. It occurred to Graham then that this may just be the first time Henry had seen a living deer in the flesh. He'd grown up in Boston with his mother and Graham could only assume wildlife was in short supply. He could hardly even remember the first time that he had seen a deer in person, back in Ireland when he was just a boy, but he could image he was in as much awe as Henry was.

The moment was short lived however as the sound of gunfire sounded, echoing throughout the forest and scarring the birds from their perches and no doubt alerting any walkers nearby. Graham knew in an instant that something had gone wrong, because when the deer fell over, impacting with the earth and dry leaves with a thud, so did Henry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Carl is one of my favourite characters in the show, so naturally I'm kind of writing Henry in his image, but with slight alterations. However, some of Carl's major plot points (Like getting shot) have been used. The same is to be said for some of the others characters like Emma and Rick, for example. Anyway, let me know what you think!
> 
> Apologies for any typos or grammar issues


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as crazy a chapter as the last couple, but I hope you like it anyway. Based off of Season 2 episode 2/3 of The Walking Dead. 
> 
> Please, let me know what you think!

* * *

 

Emma had been afraid in her life. She'd spent weeks in a foster home where the parents were less than gentle and spent days hiding beneath her bed out of fear for her guardian's wrath. The dead had begun to walk amongst the living, feeding off of anything with a pulse while Emma fought for survival, that had been scary too. But watching Graham come running out of the woods, his gun bashing against the back of his legs as he held Henry, limp and bloody in his arms – that had been nothing shy of torture.

Graham had taken him to the hospital, Emma hot on his heels as they called out for Doctor Whale. Emma didn't care if she attracted every walker within a tristate area, she was getting her son the help he needed and she wasn't wasting a second.

"Emma, I'm going to need you to step outside." Doctor Whale had told her, already pulling on his sterile gloves while Mother Superior and Sister Astrid began laying out a disturbing array of sharp, intimidating tools on a wheeled trolley beside the hospital bed.

"I'm not leaving him!" Emma argued, going so far as to try and force her way through, but Graham's arms wrapped around her shoulders in a vice like grip and began to pull her away. Needless to say, Emma's strength was no match for his. "Let me go!"

"Emma, listen to me," Graham said, his voice hoarse in her ear as she fought against him, even giving him a swift and harsh kick to the shin in her attempt to escape. "Emma, he's losing a lot of blood. The doctor needs space if he's going to help him."

"I need to see him, I need to be with him," Emma argued, tears already tracking down her cheeks. She's once prided herself for being strong, but now? Now she felt as though she was made of glass, ready to shatter as the slightest touch – and she beginning to crack.

"Emma, they're going to help him, but you have to let them." Graham said, sounding just as wrecked as Emma felt.

"What's going on here?" Emma heard Killian ask, no doubt drawn to the hospital by Emma's cries. He sounded concerned and had she not been devastated beyond reason, she might have appreciated that little fact.

"There was an accident," Graham said, his grip on Emma beginning to loosen. It didn't matter anyway, the fight was leaving her already, the door between her and her son already shut while the doctors did their work. "Henry was shot."

" _Shot?"_ Killian echoed and Emma caught a glimpse of his gaping mouth as she turned slightly, her breathing harsh through her nose as the cold air stung her nostrils. "How did that happen,"

"There was a deer," A voice said, but it wasn't Graham, nor was it Killian. Emma knew the voice had come from the bastard who had shot her son. "I didn't see the boy until he was on the ground."

"Emma," Killian said, his voice steady as he watched her turn, but it was an echo to her, lost behind the rushing in her ears. "Emma, what are you –" but his question was saved by the thud of Emma's fist connecting with the stranger's jaw, a sickening crack filling the air as Emma drew back. But it didn't stop her. She pulled back and struck again, the pain radiating through her knuckles, up her arm and smarting over her bullet wound. She didn't feel the blood as it coated her knuckles, and she didn't feel it as it oozed through the material of her shirt. She didn't even notice as the man tumbled to the ground, only that she followed after, striking the man hard wherever she could. "Emma!"

She felt as arms wrapped around her shoulders and felt as they pulled her away, but she didn't' struggle like before. Now the fight truly was gone, seeping out of her like water into the ground. The world was beginning to feel awfully large without the prospect of Henry being in it.

"He's all I've got." Emma said, and had she been in her right mind, she'd have slapped herself for just how weak and feeble she was starting to sound. Henry was her anchor, the thing that held her down to the earth and kept her intact with her own humanity. Sure, she'd done some regrettable things to stay alive, but none of them felt so bad when she had Henry alive and by her side. Without him, Emma could safely say she didn't know what she'd be capable of. She could probably burn the entire safe zone to try and melt the pain away, let the flames wash her clean while the screams of survivors echoed in her ears, deafening her to her own torment.

"Emma, I need you to listen to me," Killian said, turning her so that she faced him, his hand gripping tightly to her shoulders as he tried to reach her. Her legs were weakening, her knees ready to buckle and send her pummelling towards the ground, ready to lie down and never get up. "Your son needs you and hurting this guy isn't going to do you, or him, any favours."

"Emma?" Astrid asked, poking her head out of the rusted fire escape door and looking over the commotion beyond. "What's Henry's blood type?"

"A Positive," Emma said, her head still swimming from her fall with the stranger and the adrenaline slowly leaving her system, "Same as mine."

"Good. We're going to need you now." She said, catching Emma's uninjured hand and half dragging her into the hospital. The world seemed to fall away after that. She could hear the people inside milling around her but it was nothing but background noise as she looked at Henry laid out on his back, Doctor Whale bent over him with bloodied hands and metal instruments. "Emma, you're going to need to sit down," Astrid said again, moving Emma towards the nearest chair and sitting her down, but Emma's eyes couldn't stray from where Henry lay, his eye closed and his skin pale.

"Please, save him," Emma said, her voice quiet but heard amongst the occupants of the room. Mother Superior shot her a sympathetic smile before going back to help Doctor Whale with his operation while Astrid pulled over a small table, atop which sat an empty blood bag and a long, wide tube. Emma barely even flinched when the needle was jabbed into her and the blood began to drain. She felt numb to everything and if nothing happened – if Henry wasn't saved – she feared this was how she'd be feeling for the rest of her likely short life.

* * *

 

Everything fell into a haze after that. Emma's blood was drained to the point of dizziness while Doctor Whale dug out the fragments of bullet from her son's chest. Astrid seemed to be Emma's personal nurse, offering her pain killers for her bloodied knuckles as she began stitching them closed, but Emma refused, the worry coursing through her veins seeming to blot everything else out. It took an hour before Emma was fully fixed up, her wounds sewn shut and her battered wrist bandaged. But it was another two of horrific and anxious waiting until Doctor Whale was done with Henry. Emma had never felt elation as much as when Doctor Whale, covered in her son's blood had uttered those five small words. _He's going to pull through._

"Swan?" A voice called, one she quickly recognised as Killian's as he stepped through the door to the hospital. She didn't look up, barely even acknowledged him as she gripped a hold of Henry's hand as tightly as she could, ignoring the flare of pain it sent through her stitched up knuckles and busted wrist. "How's he doing?"

"He's going to be okay," She said with a watery smile, her heart breaking at the sight of her son so lifeless, his face so soft and childlike as he slept. There were times, especially after the battle with Blackbeard where Emma forgot just how young he was. He was barely thirteen years old if her keep on time was correct, and she'd seen him hold a gun as easily as he would a baseball bat. It was agony that she hadn't seen it until now, what her son was becoming – what she was standing by and letting him become. And if she was letting this happen, who was to say just what she was becoming.

"There's no need to worry, Swan," Killian said, pulling up a chair opposite her by Henry's bedside, looking at the young boy with a strange look of relief. "I knew the moment I met him. He's a fighter."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Emma asked, her voice blank as she looked at Killian with her tear tracked face. It was hardly a new sight for this world, people crying over losses, but to see the woman he'd admired from the moment he'd met reach such a breaking point was enough to make even his hard heart ache. "I don't want him to be a fighter. I never wanted to teach him how to wield a gun properly, or the best places to stab a man in the head!" She exclaimed, the horror in her voice far from hidden. She wanted her son to be her son, not a killer. She wanted him to go to school and get good grades – or even bad grades – she didn't want this for him. She never would. "I want him to be young and happy. I want him to be a kid who's biggest problems are that his mother won't let him have chocolate milk on his cereal!" That had been a fun day, Henry and her arguing over something so petty as chocolate milk. That seemed like an entire lifetime away now. "I never wanted this life for him."

"It's not your fault, Swan. You couldn't have known this would happen," Killian reasoned as she wiped her eyes with her bandaged hand.

"I nearly gave him up, you know." Emma said, her voice quiet as her eyes began to water once more. Emma's biggest weakness, it would seem, would always be her son.

"Your boy?" he asked, surprised by her honesty.

"Yeah. I was young and in prison. Hardly mother material, you know?" He listened as earnestly as he could, wondering if Emma was telling him all this because some part of her trusted him or because he was the only person within ear shot. It was strange, to see someone so strong be so vulnerable, her lip trembling as she spoke like she was fighting back her own sobs. "But I didn't. I held firm and told him that _I_ would be his best chance. But I can't help but think sometimes that I was wrong not to let him go," She all but whispered, her eyes slipping closed as she listened hard to the gentle puffs of Henry's breath in the all but silent room. "If I have given him up, sent him away to some family across the country, perhaps he'd stand a better chance. He could be in a safe haven right now, or a refugee camp or –"

"Dead," Killian interrupted, trying to reason with the broken looking woman in front of him.

"Or worse." She added and he couldn't help but agree. Anyone in this world knew that there was a fate far worse than death these days. All it took was one bite and everything you were, everything you could have been was burnt away, leaving the flesh eating creature in its wake.

"There's no point dwelling on it, Love," Killian said, reaching out for her hand before thinking better of it. She was weak and woozy after giving blood and the last thing she would want is pity. And so he retracted his hand, letting it sit once more in his lap. "He's your boy, his best place is with you. He's going to make it, that's all that matters."

"I can't lose him too." She said, looking at Henry's face as though burning it to memory. "I can't," Killian was saved a reply – not that he'd have known what to say given the chance – by the muffled sounds of shouts and protest coming from just outside the door. Emma could barely make them out, not that she was trying, before Regina burst through the door, Doctor Whale, Mother Superior and Mary-Margret all following after.

"Regina, leave them be!" Mary-Margret called out, but Regina wasn't listening to a word of it, her eyes frantically scanning the room before her.

"Where is he?" She demanded, "Where's Henry?" Killian stood up defensively, watching the mayor with narrowed eyes as she spotted where Henry lay, his hands clasped in Emma's as tight as he dared. "Henry!" Se exclaimed, looking half ready to fall onto the cot and weep like women did in soap operas or Disney films when they were facing trauma. Emma, frankly, was past the point of dealing with Regina's theatrics. "How could you let this happen?" She demanded and it took Emma and moment to realise that the person Regina was chastising, was her.

"You think I _let_ this happen," Emma all but growled. If there was one thing the world ending had done to Emma Swan, it was keeping her fuse doused in gasoline. It barely even took a flame to light it anymore, just a spark. And Regina was like an exposed wire. "This was an accident.

"Regina," Graham said, his hand reaching for her shoulder, but the once mayor pulled away, spinning to face the group of people standing in the room with a manic fire to her eyes.

" _You,"_ she sneered, pointing to the large bearded man with her clean, slender finger, "You did this to him. You shot a child,"

"I – I didn't know – I didn't see,"

"If it were down to me you'd never see again," Regina snarled, her teeth bared as she stood before the man, dwarfed by his height and yet, it was he who cowered. Emma finally took a chance to check the damage she had done to the man. It was impressive, to say the least. A rather violent purple bruise had become to colour his jaw and his lip was busted and still oozing slightly as his eye was beginning to swell shut. Emma could do nothing but wonder what harm had been done where she couldn't see. And yet the man still looked pitiful. Emma would almost feel bad for the damage she'd caused had it been different, far less horrifying circumstances.

"Alright, that's enough," another man stepped forward, his face kind despite the sternness in his expression as she held and arm out between Regina and the towering man. "John, take Roland outside," He said and Emma caught sight of the small boy with the curling brown hair huddled behind the towering mans legs. He look barely half Henry's age, his eyes full of fear and innocence that Emma had thought long since lost.

"I would hardly entrust him with a child." Regina called out after him, but the man stopped her as she tried to go after him.

"It's already been agreed that this was an accident," The man pressed, enunciating his words in a way that helped Emma grasp his accent. British, like she'd sussed Killian to be.

"An _accident._ A man who cant aim should never hold a gun."

"Regina, that's enough!" Mary-Margret said again, his sweet voice hard as she looked at the woman from the British man's side. "Graham has told us what happened and both John and Robin have accepted the responsibility for it. You have no right to be so cruel."

"Regina, I think you'd better leave," Emma said before the mayor could reply, her voice seeming to silence the room as all eyes fell on her, mostly pitying, but Regina's were full of nothing but rage. "You being here isn't helping Henry."

"And you're suddenly Oh-So-Responsible in the five minutes you've been back." Regina snapped, rounding on Emma like a cornered dog ready to slash and tear at whatever flesh it could reach. "Tell me, where have you been these past few week, because it certainly hasn't been with him!"

"I have been trying to keep us alive!" Emma shouted back, forcing herself to stand despite the empty feeling in her bones. "Everything I have done was to protect this town."

"You cant make me leave," Regina said, her eyes beginning to water from the rage in her veins. "He's my son."

"No he's not, he's mine!" The room fell into silence, not even Regina offering another sharp, hard hitting quip as she stared at Emma with wide eyes. If not for the anger and the adrenaline numbing just about every nerve or rational thought, Emma would have noticed how delirious the woman sounded. Emma had thought Regina as becoming awfully protective of her son, but she'd never thought the woman would go so far as possessiveness towards the boy. Nobody spoke as Regina left in a huff, slamming the already creaking door of the hospital behind her.

"I'm very sorry about your son," The man – Robin, Emma no knew him to be called – said, stepping towards. "And I know my timing is ill placed," He said tentatively, continuing to speak to her despite her attention being anywhere but him. "But when this I over, I'd like to speak with you properly. One leader to another." Emma felt herself nod, but didn't fully register just what the man was saying, and then he was gone, followed out by Doctor Whale and Mother Superior leaving Emma, Graham, Killian and Mary-Margret alone with Henry.

* * *

 

The day turned to evening of something of a haze for Emma. The light that managed to trickle between the boarded up windows began to fade, casting strange patterns across Henry's thin comforter as he lay stock still in his bed, nothing but the rise and fall of his chest to indicate that he was, in fact, still alive. Killian had left not long ago to find Tink having promised to tell her what all the commotion was for, but Graham had stayed within the hospital with Emma. He had, however, quickly managed to fall asleep in one of the firm hospital chairs once used for visitors, his head titled back towards the ceiling as his breath rose and fell gently. Mary-Margret was yawning, Emma noticed, but she was staying awake no doubt for Emma's sake, her hand holding Emma's spare hand as she lay beside her son on the bed, daring not to move from fear he'd stop breathing at the slightest jolt.

"You know," Mary-Margret said quietly, tugging delicately on Emma's unbandaged hand. Had the room not been so quiet, Emma would never have known the woman had spoken her word was so soft. "When all of this started, David and I," she continued unprompted. Emma wasn't looking at the woman, but Mary-Margret knew that she was listening. Emma was always listening to the cries of others, ready to swoop in an save them no matter what the personal cost. "We lost our daughter,"

"You never said," Emma replied, turnign to face the othe woman, her attention drawn half away from her son to look at who she could easily call her closest friend.

"Well," Mary-Margret said with a slight shrug, her shoulders clearly heavy with the weight of her confession. "You never asked." And it was true. Emma never asked other's of their past, or of what they had been before everything had fallen apart, because, to her, that wasn't what mattered. Emma had found that your worth in this world was measured by who you became, not who you were, and others shared the same view. She had always figured that if someone wanted you to know of their past, they would tell you, but you should never ask.

"What was she called?" Emma asked, welcoming the half distraction and watching the sad smile take over Mary-Margret's face, no doubt lost in the memories of the little girl she'd lost.

"Funnily enough," She replied, her eyes watering slightly as she looked up at Emma once more, her free hand slipping into the pocket of her jacket. From inside she drew out a small piece of white material embroidered with purple thread. "She was called Emma," She said, her thumb running across the cursive lettering spelling out her daughters name.

"What happened?" Emma asked, knowing that had it been anyone else asking that they'd have been overstepping. But given Emma's current predicament, she figured she was well past the point of worrying about such things.

"It's not something we talk about," Mary-Margret said, which nowadays translated to meaning something unspeakable and horrifying happened, as with Jefferson's daughter, Grace. "But I blame myself for it everyday," She said, not bothering to wipe the tears from her cheek as they began to fall. "Don't do that to yourself, Emma."

Even if Emma had known what to say in response to such advice, she was saved the trouble by the feeling of Henry stirring against her ribs.

"Henry?" Emma exclaimed, hope filling her voice as she pivoted her body to face her son once more, tears already beginning to well in her eyes at the sight of his blink eyes. Graham had woken up too and was by Henry's other side in a second, relief flooding his face as he smiled at the boy.

"Where are we?" He asked, clearly dazed from the medicine running through his veins. "What happened?"

"The hospital," Emma said gently, her hand already tracing the line of his hair, caring very little for the sweet that kept it plastered to his forehead.

"It hurts, a lot," He said, his young face scrunching in pain.

"I'll get Doctor Whale," Graham said and Emma nodded but dared not take her eyes off of Henry.

"I know, baby," She said, stroking his hair from his forehead, not bothering to keep the tears of relief from splashing onto his face.

"You should have seen it," He rasped, his voice sounding so tiny and breathless that Emma had to choke down her agonised sob.

"What?" She asked, confusion filling her head as she watched Henry smile slightly despite the exhaustion in his body.

"The deer," He breathed and Emma wanted to laugh at that. Here he was, post-surgery, his body in blood soaked bandages and he was talking about a _deer._ "It was so pretty, mom. It was so close. I've never been so..." And then he fell back once more, his body going limp on the bed. It if wasn't from the still slow rise and fall of his chest, Emma would have panicked. But as Graham came back in with Doctor Whale in tow, Emma felt for the first time in a long time as hope filled her chest. He was okay, he had pulled through and most of all, the thing that Emma found most astonishing of all was that after everything, Henry had talked about the deer.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is both a very backstory-ish chapter, and a setting up chapter. Those who haven't guessed, Regina is kind of taking the role of Shane in The Walking Dead for this story. So, That'll be fun. I've also kind of merge season 2,3 and a bit of 4 together for the timing of this story rather than start from he beginning of the outbreak, but I'll do my best to slip in Backstory bits every now and again. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible with updates, I know, but I honestly hadn't thought this plot out enough when I'd started writing and had a few things to sort out. I'll try and keep updates a little more regular, but I make no promises.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

 

"You wanted to speak to me?" Emma asked as she stepped into the town hall. This town meeting was far quieter than any they'd had previously, only Emma, Graham and David from their camp present since Regina had gone off in some kind of sulk, and only three men from Robin's stood patients in the middle of the room. Honestly, Emma just wanted the entire situation wrapped up as quickly as possible so she could get back to the hospital where the second half of her heart was waiting. Henry was going to be fine, she now knew, his wound already on the mend – he'd even managed to stay conscious for an entire day – but the thought of leaving him alone for too long shook Emma down to her core.

"Yes, I believe you are the leader of this group?" Robin asked and Emma took a moment to mull it over. _Technically_ Regina was the leader. This had been her town to begin with, after all. But then Emma thought to what Storybrooke had been before her arrival, how the buildings were boarded and every person hid indoors out of fear of teh monsters that prowled. It was Emma and David who had suggested the wall around the town, Graham, David and his brother, James, who had taken it upon themselves to block off the alleys and clear out the buildings and it had been something of a group effort that got the town back into something akin to a community. All Regina really seemed to do was walk around as though she owned the place, with her head held high and her lips pursed, barking orders at people and demanding respect. Honestly, Emma barely even saw her as a leader. She even opened her mouth to say so, but David's voice cut her off.

"Yes," He said, no waver in his voice as Emma turned to look at him over her right shoulder. "Emma is our leader," she offered him a small smile at in thanks before focusing her attention back to the issue at hand, back at thhe man standing before her, a bow strung around his chest and a quiver on his back, his face etched with the same worn lines Emma had long since grown to recognise in this world. It was the face of a man with too much weight on his shoulders.

"Then I hope you'll hear my proposition," Robin began again, the anticipation already building in Emma's gut. "We've been in the woods outside of the town for months," He said and Emma could hear the change in his voice. He wasn't talking as a leader anymore, but as a man asking for help. Emma knew what help he was looking for as well, and she didn't know if he had it in her to deny him such a basic need. "There are few of us left now, those not taken by the infected were victims to the winter. Would you consider a joining camps?"

"What can you offer us?" Emma asked, adopting a far more business-like tone, the sound of her own words burning her tongue as she tried to think how a leader would face such a situation. How Regina might face it. But unlike Regina, Emma's mind was open to the possibility of a merge, of creating something akin to a community in this godforsaken world. That, and she'd seen the little boy, the one who had been hiding behind Robin's ankles, barely older than five with such innocent eyes. It would be one thing to allow these men to remain out in the woods, to fend for themselves as she once had, but to leave a child out there – well, she may as well sign the boy'][s death certificate herself.

"Our numbers may be few, but those left know how to fight," He said, giving Emma a knowing look. "From what I've seen, you're few on fighters," He wasn't wrong. In fact, with Jefferson dead, all that was left was herself, David, his brother James (Who'd left for a run the day before Emma's return and had yet to resurface), Graham and Killian. Sure, everyone knew the basics of fighting and Mary-Margret had proven good with a bow, and given the right motivation Ruby was like a wild animal, but not everyone had the stomach for killing yet - at least not when it came to people.

"How many of you are there?" Emma asked, keeping her voice level and her chin tilted up. She'd even attempted to roll her shoulders back to make her posture a little more powerful, but her bullet wound was far from healed, and too much movement made her slump over and seem anything but powerful. If Robin noticed her wince he had the decency not to react.

"Eight, my son inc-"

"Seven," One of the men piped up, catching Robin' attention.

"Of course. Seven." Robin amended. "But my son, Roland, he's barely five, he won't be much trouble."

"What happened to the eighth?" Emma interrupted, trepidation in her voice as hundreds of possibilities passed through her mind. This world was cruel. Emma had seen people do unspeakable things and her hands were far from clean. She knew not to trust blindly.

"He stole from his own," Robin said. "He was banished, as is our custom."

"You sent him out alone?" Emma asked, knowing it was a stupid question, he'd just said as much after all.

"When you have next to nothing, you hold on to what little you've got," Robin reasoned and Emma understood immediately. They were lucky in their community. Supplies weren't exactly brimming, but there was enough that no one need fight for anything. Everyone's priority here was survival, and if that meant putting petty feuds to bed, then so be it – for the most part at least. There were still some who needed to get that memo.

"How many walkers have you killed?" Emma said, already feeling David's eyes on the back of her head as she spoke, boring through her skull as though he could see the inner workings of her mind – or, at least, as though he was trying to. Robin looked taken aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

"Too many to count I'm afraid. The woods are anything but secure," He said and Emma felt herself nod in agreement.

"And how many people have you killed?" She continued, watching as Robin's eyes averted for a moment.

"Six," He said, sounding anything but proud of his words. Emma admired that. It was a man who killed the living and did so with pride and arrogance that were to be feared. Those who did it out of necessity, well, Emma understood that too.

"And the rest of them?" She asked, addressing the two men who stood behind Robin. She didn't know their names yet, but with her mind already mostly made up.

"No more than one, and only when deserved," Robin said earnestly, and Emma believed him. There were no alarm bells, no warning signs, nothing. There wasn't a single bad feeling about Robin and his men, aside from one thing. John, the larger man had still shot her son. Accident or not, there was something about that fact that she simply couldn't shake. But she could hardly forsake and entire camp on one man's mistake, nor could she blame a seemingly harmless man for one accident, especially when Henry was going to pull through just fine.

"Tell your people that there is a place for you here," Emma said and watched with a smidge of pride as Robin visibly sighed his relief. "We'll have to sort out living spaces and what you can do to help out but, you can make your home here."

"Thank you, Emma," He said, inclining his head towards her slightly, flashing her a quick, grateful smile. Even she couldn't help but return it, watching in silence as Robin and his men made their way out of the town hall, respectfully letting the doors shut behind them.

"Are you sure about this, Emma?" David asked the second the door to the hall closed, stepping out in front of her before she could even amke a move to leave. "We don't know these people. And they did _shoot_ Henry," He reasoned.

"And they also brought him back to me," Emma countered, pulling her jacket tighter around herself, desperate to step out of her leader shoes and back into those of a mother. Henry was probably awake now and she wanted nothing more than to be by his side. "Accidents happen."

"As much as I trust your judgement," Graham stepped forward, his hand holding Emma's arm lightly to keep her from running off, "These men are strangers."

"We're running low on fighters, and if BlackBeard is really still out there, then we need all we can get." Emma finalised, silencing both Graham and David from arguing the point any further. They both nodded their somewhat sceptical agreement, Graham even releasing his grip from Emma's arm so they could return to their business. It was evening now, and the light was slowly beginning to die out with hues of red and orange cast across the sky. The days were lengthening once again, something Emma thanked her lucky stars for. Unlike Robin's group, Emma and her camp had been lucky enough to outlive the winter, nothing but the rumble of stomachs and the off running to noses to cause any real trouble amongst them. "I've got to get back to Henry," She said, offering Graham a quick, joyless smile before turning. But before she even reached for the handle of the door, it swung open, almost knocking her backwards from the force. Stood silhouetted by the still young sunset was Regina, her hands on her hips and her nostrils flared enough that Emma thought if the woman _really_ tried, smoke might just burst out.

"What's this I hear about the Merry Men moving in," She demanded, looking at Emma with her sharp eyes, her lips curling into something akin to sneer.

"Robin and his men are joining us," Emma stepped forward, shaking off the supportive hand Graham had left at her elbow after her slight misbalance as the doors burst open. "They need shelter and we need the manpower," She reasoned, but something in the way the once mayor stood, her teeth clenched so tight Emma though they might break told her she was a bit beyond reason.

"And just _what_ gave you the authority to make such a decision for _my_ town?" Emma hardly missed the emphasis Regina made on Storybrooke, like a wolf marking its territory, reminding Emma that her place was not at the head of this camp.

"Storybrooke isn't _your_ town anymore, Regina," Graham piped up, stepping forward to stand beside Emma. He'd worked here before, Emma remembered, as the town sheriff. He'd moved from northern Ireland, he'd once told her, searching for a new and adventurous life. Somehow, Emma doubted this was what he'd had in mind. Still, that left him as one of the few occupants of Storybrooke – alongside Granny, Ruby, Archie and few others – that actually knew just what the mayor was like. The end of the world had changed everyone, some in ways that were admirable, creating leaders where there had been followers and making soldiers out of everyday townsfolk. But then there were those who had changed for the worse, like Jefferson and his spiral into insanity. There was no telling just what madam mayor had become. "Nothing is that simple."

"And just who died and elected _you_ leader?" She sneered down at Emma. Not that she stood all that much taller, Emma noted, only that Regina stood with the same straight backed power-pose that she seemed the carry with her everywhere, whereas Emma's shoulders sagged slightly with exhaustion and a still painful bullet wound. "Because it certainly wasn't me."

"Emma has done more to protect this town than any of us," David added, jumping to Emma's defence. She was flattered, truly, that they seemed to think so highly of her. The only problem was she wasn't quite sure how to handle this kind of admiration, especially when it was what made Regina look at her like a raging bull. Was the leadership really worth it? "Yourself included." Emma doubted it, but this wasn't for her benefit and she knew that. If stepping up was what kept her family safe, then who was she to back down.

"I kept this town alive well enough before Miss Swan's arrival, and I shall keep it as such after she'd gone."

"Who said I was going anywhere?" Emma asked sounding almost insulted by Regina's so sure tone.

"You've hardly a history of commitment," Regina said offhandedly and Emma was reminded that everyone in this town knew just about everything worth knowing about one another. It would hardly be hard to know that Emma had a knack for hightailing out of a place when the road got a little too rocky. However, Regina's words were doing nothing more than make Emma plant her feet just that little bit firmer in Storybrooke. "There's always something dragging you away. Sooner or later you just might not come back,"

"Is that a threat?" Emma challenged, her voice lowering to something like a growl as she levelled her gaze with Regina who – to her credit – didn't back down.

"Not yet," Regina countered and Emma felt as both Graham as David tensed beside her, not having noticed before just how close they'd come to stand by her side.

"I have bigger problems than you, Regina," Emma said, her words even despite the boiling of her blood in her veins. If there was one thing Emma had learnt over her years alone or on the run, it was how to keep her emotions in check. If Regina was hoping to get a rise out of her tonight, then she was going to be sorely disappointed. "And it seems it's up to the town who they want in charge."

"We'll see," Regina said and then she was gone, her slightly heeled boots clicking on the stone steps as she left the town hall and slipped off into the empty streets, leaving Emma to wonder just how far the mayor would go to hold onto her crown.

* * *

It wasn't a quick job, moving the camp of men from the woods into Storybrooke. Not only did there need to be a constant guard on the gates to keep the walkers away, but it seemed that Robin and his Merry Men as Henry had taken to calling to them, had done such a good job at making the woods their home, not even they could find their camp with ease. It took just over a day before the last of the men stepped through the gate and even then it was close to dark by the time Robin and his camp were anything close to settled. Granny and Ruby had taken to feeding the newcomers what they had to spare while Robin spoke with both David and Graham about their patrol situation. Emma had returned to the hospital where Henry had now been told he was ready to go back to his normal life, albeit a little more carefully and with no strenuous work for his still weak body. Overall, everyone was fully occupied with their own business by the time Regina had made her way to the park near to the edge of Storybrooke, just a few feet from the forest edge.

She'd known that Little John would be here after hearing the other members of his camp talking in hushed tones to one another about his guilt, of how he'd been putting himself quite extraneously to work as repentance for harming Henry. As far as Regina was concerned, redemption for harming Henry would take far more than a bit of manual labour, but the burly man had other ideas.

"Good evening," She announced a little louder than necessary, making John start, a couple of logs tumbling from the pile he was carrying from the force of it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," she said, her voice bright in the darkness.

"No worries, Ma'am," The large man replied, his curling brown hair falling limply over his forehead where his hands were too preoccupied to push it back. "I'm just collecting more wood for the fires," He said, gesturing quite unnecessarily to the load in his arms. "Doing my bit, so to speak,"

"Yes, I can see that," Regina said with the same tight, authoritative smile she'd once worn when meeting with governors or other business she all but cared for. She was glad to see, even in the almost non-existent light, that Little John seemed nervous. She was hardly surprised given their last encounter where Regina had done nothing short of threaten to blind the man. Even now she could see where his face was still purpled by Emma's onslaught of punches. She may not like the other woman, but she could at least appreciate her handy work.

"Well, best be off," Little John said dismissively despite the smile on his round face. "People'll be getting cold,"

"I'm afraid you're not going anywhere," Regina said, still smiling at the man before her, revelling in how he cowered. "Not tonight. Not after you shot my son," Clear confusion flashed over the man's face at her words, but she brushed it off. Henry may not be her son by blood, but he was in all the ways that mattered – in her eyes at least. She was the one who soothed him at night when his mother up and left, leaving him alone in Storybrooke with no one to care for him properly. It was Regina who fought to protect him, who treated him with comic books she found in the rubble of old houses and who comforted him when he was afraid. Emma herself had said she'd planned on giving Henry up when he was born, and any woman who thinks such a thing is no mother, not to Regina. And when the inevitable happened and Emma was gone, it would be Regina who would pick up the tattered pieces of the boy's precious heart and mend it with tender love and kindness. In her eyes, Regina was the mother Henry needed, and she was the mother he was going to get.

"I spoke with Emma, she said all was forgiven – that it was an accident," Regina laughed then, a cold, mirthless sound like shattering glass, harsh enough to make Little John flinch for a just a moment.

"Miss Swan is not in charge here," She said coldly, watching as Little John began backing away slowly, his eyes never leaving her face as he did so. As far as size went, 'Little' John could take Regina on quite easily without so much as breaking a sweat. However, Regina knew a soft soul when she saw one; knew how to twist and torment them to her bidding as satisfyingly as a cat with a mouse. And it just so happened that Little John has one of the softest souls Regina had come across in a very long time. He wouldn't hurt her, he'd barely even stand up to her. "I am," She finished coldy.

"Please, Ma'am," He said, dropping the logs he's been carrying and holding his hands up in surrender. His crossbow, Regina noted, was not within reach for him and he didn't appear to have any more weapons on him aside from the hatched lodged far too deeply into his chopping log to be of any use. If he did, he didn't seem to be in any rush to use them. "I'll go. I-I'll leave. You'll never see me again, you have my word," He all but begged, his eyes darting from side to side, looking to the slight glisten of fires showing the town barely visible from the distance and convenient blockade of trees. Little John truly had chosen a wonderful spot for it, Regina noted.

"No," Regina said, reaching towards her boot where she'd had a knife kept nice and safe since the day of the outbreak. You could never be too careful after all. "I want to watch you _bleed"_ tilting her head to the side she thought about just how quick this could end, how feeble this man before her was, his eyes darting to her hand and the blade she held there. He'd barely been able to utter another syllable before Regina lashed out, her blade coming down point first towards the junction where his large neck met his broad shoulders.

It wasn't an easy task, John's build almost towering over her own, but with a firm grip and her jaw clenched, she managed to give the blade one good twist which sent John spluttering and gasping to the group, his humungous hands coming to press against the wound where the knife had gone in. It wasn't long after that, Little John's blood pulsing along with his racing heartbeat, the thick mess staining the grass before he fell to his side, motionless, his beady black eyes empty and his mouth still open in shock. Around him the woods stayed alive, night birds hooting into the silence and branches rustling their leaves like a mourning choir. Yes, Little John had definitely chosen a wonderful spot to die.

* * *

It was still dark when Emma heard the unmistakable sounds of panic outside of the window. With the same instinct that had kept her alive at night in the forest, she bolted upright, jostling the sleeping body beside her with a groan.

"Emma?" Graham grumbled, rubbing his half-closed eyes, his accent thicker still in his sleep dazed state. But Emma was hardly listening to him, already tugging her boots on as briskly as she could while making sure the knives hidden there were still in place before snatching her gun from the night stand and rushing down the stairs.

The loft wasn't an ideal living arrangement, Emma knew, especially not with six people trying to live inside it. There were two levels, at least, the lower one consisting of one large room very poorly split into kitchen, dining and living room with a small bathroom tucked away in the corner. When he wasn't on raids or bumbling through the woods like a moron, the lower level was where David's brother, James slept, usually face down on the ratty sofa. In his absence, however, Henry had taken up residence there, claiming he was getting too old to share a bed with his mother. Emma hadn't argued since he wasn't far away and it only meant that Graham could stay there now instead of in the half-ruined office of the sheriff station. It usually dredged some questions from Mary-Margret, but Emma could handle such so long as she didn't have to sleep alone, something she had begun to find increasingly more difficult. In fact, the best night sleep Emma could remember having was during her stay in the hospital, and even that had been the result of bone deep exhaustion and medication.

David and Mary-Margret themselves slept tucked in a small bedroom under the upper level, separated poorly by an old bedsheet by means of a door. Still, they never complained and even took to placing small nick-nacks and personal effects in their space. A photograph here, and old jewellery box there. It was their own little haven.

The upper level was less than a third the size of that below and had likely once been a pleasant enough bedroom. Now, though, it was simply where Emma went to sleep. The bed was intact but the sheets hadn't been changed in months, and any of the quaint, wooden furniture had either been burned to keep them warm the previous winter or broken in whatever scuffle had occurred. Now it lay littered with various weapons Emma had picked up, supplies that she liked to keep ready at hand and the small box of sentimental items Henry had dragged with him from Boston. It wasn't perfect, but they managed.

By the time Emma had made it to the street having taken the stairs around the back of the loft two at a time she found the crisis over. She'd expected pandemonium and horror, people panicking and screaming for their lives from some kind of invasion – be it from the dead or the living, she hadn't been sure. Instead, she was met with a small crowd of people all huddled in the road near the square. Some of them she recognised to be that night's patrol, still dressed in their everyday gear with weapons slung across backs and guns ready in hand. Others, though, she noted looked like they'd been dragged right from their beds as much as she did, blankets wrapped around their shoulders against the frosty spring air.

"What's going on?" Emma heard Graham from just behind her before she felt a weight fall over her shoulders. After a dazed moment, she realised it was her jacket. He'd obviously grabbed it along with his own before following her right out of the door. Henry was there too now, leaning against Mary-Margret who had her arm around his shoulders but her bow ready in hand.

"Little John," Emma heard Robin's voice break through the crowd, followed by the unmistakable sound of an arrow being pulled from flesh. Emma had heard it enough times fighting alongside Mary-Margret to know the sound, and judging by the way she craned her neck to see, she had recognised it too. Taking a few steps forward, Emma finally noticed what the crowd had been gathered for. Sprawled on his back, his once beady black eyes wide open and milky, was Little John, a large, bloody wound that had long since stopped bleeding against the crook of his neck and a now very distinguishable arrow hole had busted through one of his eyes leaving nothing but a black hole in its wake. The more Emma looked at it, the more she felt herself being dragged closer until she was as close to the corpse as Robin was. "He must have been bitten while gathering supplies," Robin concluded, looking to Emma, his mouth set in a grim line while he wiped his arrow with a scrap piece of cloth.

"Where was he collecting supplies?" Emma asked, her mind finally cleared and woken up, her shoulders taut with apprehension. If John had been bitten then that could mean only one of two things, neither of which were good. Either, Little john had gone into the woods and been turned, somehow managing in stumble his way back into town, or worse still, there was a breach in the walls around Storybrooke and the town was no longer just hiding the living.

"The old park, in the woods by the lake," Emma knew the place, and she knew it well. In fact, she seemed to know the entire town like the back of her hand by now. She knew where the walls were weak and knew that was where the patrols were most frequent. The park was one of those places. Before she could even stand back up from her crouch, she heard her name being half-shrieked from the other direction.

"Emma!" The voice called and Emma rounded to see Regina, her face illuminated orange in the dim light of dying fires running towards their group.

"Regina?" Emma asked, watching the out of breath woman as she panted, her arms flailing slightly over to somewhere behind her.

"A breach," she said, pointing back towards the graveyard, the opposite end of the walls border to where Little John had allegedly been. "Walkers near the walls," Regina continued, turning so as to go back the way she'd come. Emma didn't know why Regina was heading back, or even what she'd been doing by the graveyard in the first place, but it wasn't the time to argue. Besides, if Regina had come to Emma for help, the situation could be nothing less than dire.

"David, Graham, take Killian and go check the park," Emma said, picking the three of them out immediately from the crowd as the most prepared. "Mary-Margret, you come with us. Henry, you go inside with Ruby and you stay there. Everyone else, get ready or get hidden," She called as the group began to disperse.

"Emma, if I might," Regina said, halting their movements. "Someone needs to deal with that," She said, gesturing distastefully at corpse still spread on the ground like overlarge roadkill. "Mary-Margret can show them here to dispose of it while we fix the breach," Far too pumped up with adrenaline, Emma agreed nodding for Mary-Margret to help Robin who still stood beside his friend, looking down mournfully at the lifeless body.

"Let's go," Emma said quickly, turning towards the graveyard. She barely made it four steps before she heard Graham calling out to her. "What? You're meant to be at the park."

"I know, I will be," He said, looking briefly over Emma's shoulder to where Regina stood impatiently, her eyes flashing from the town to the graveyard like she had a meeting to get to, not a breach to repair. "Don't underestimate her," He said quietly, his voice low enough for only Emma to hear. She opened her mouth to respond, to ask what he meant but was silenced by his lips pressing against hers in the soft, yet desperate way they often did. After all, you never knew which kiss would be your last. Graham pulled away first, giving her a quick, encouraging nod. "Come back safe," He said before turning on his heel and jogging to catch up with Killian and David.

* * *

"We can clean him up a bit," Mary-Margret offered Robin, seeing how the man ran his hands over his face in clear distress. He may be new to this camp, but Mary-Margret knew grief when she saw it, and it was written all over the poor man's face. "We bury our friends," She added, watching as the man nodded his agreement however reluctantly. Not one to pry the grieving away from the lost, Mary-Margret fetched a bucket of not too murky water from Storybrooke's once fully functioning fountain and a handful of rags from clothing too torn to be wearable.

She'd stripped off the top few layers of clothing, figuring that she should leave enough to keep the large man decent, but they were short on supplies as it was, their harvest not ready for another few weeks and whatever clothing they had running thin. The blood covering the man's skin had dried already, thick flakes of it crusting off at the slightest touch, but it still took Mary-Margret some time before the man was anything remotely close to clean. The blood clung to his beard, his clothes and the wound itself was a deep, fleshy mess. But it was only as she scraped away to uppermost layer of blood and grime that she began to realise what was missing.

Bite marks.

There weren't any. Not on the wound nor around it.

"Robin, search his body," Mary-Margret said, dropping the rag back into the water hard enough it sloshed over the sides.

"What- why?" The man asked, but Mary-Margret was already pulling up Little John's sleeves, inspecting every inch of skin she could find for anything that suggested infection, be it a bite mark or even a scratch deep enough to draw blood.

"No bites," she thought aloud, paying no mind to the strange, inquisitive looks the still-grieving man was giving her. "He wasn't bitten," aside from the gaping wound at the hollow his throat and the obvious bruising left behind from Emma's onslaught, the man was completely unharmed – from walker inflicted injuries, at least.

"Impossible," Robin argued, checking Little John's arms himself for anything that would say otherwise, but Mary-Margret had moved on from that, probing instead at the so-called bite on the large man's neck. "He must have been – how else would he have changed?"

"He was stabbed," Mary-Margret was speaking to herself again, but Robin had heard her, his hands on Little John's arms going still as he raised his eyes at the woman across the corpse. "This wasn't an accident, this was a murder," She could hardly believe her own words, but she'd stabbed enough monsters - human and otherwise - to know the damage a knife could do in the wrong hands.

"What could possible warrant – wait," Robin caught himself, sitting back on his heels. "You don't think this could be about Emma's boy, do you?" He asked but the cogs were already whirring inside of Mary-Margret's mind. Emma was protective, and she would go to great lengths to keep her son safe, but Henry was alive and well – albeit a little shaky still on his legs – and Emma wasn't the bloodthirsty sort. Vengance wasn't her thing at all. That and she had been the one to grant access to Robin's camp and allow them to join Storybrooke's small community. She'd never go out of her way to get such petty revenge. It had to be someone else, some who loved Henry, someone who -

It all clicked into place like a key in a lock, elicting a chilling gasp from somewhere deep inside Mary-Margret's chest. If she believed in a soul, she imagined that was where it would be.

"This is all a trap," Mary-Margret breathed, her eyes wide in realisation. "We have to find the others," She didn't stand around to explain, or even to ask for help, she was off at a run towards the park before Robin had even gotten to his feet, her bow strapped to her back and her hands still covered in a dead man's blood.

* * *

The graveyard had always been quiet, Emma knew, not many of Storybrooke original occupants having survived long enough to warrant a trip to deceased family members. The only real visitor Emma knew of was Regina, who laid hand picked flowers inside her family crypt daily, hiding within the stone walls of her fifteen square foot building surrounded by tombstones. Everyone else had either long since accepted their loved one's passing, or were envious that they were able to escape this world before it even began. Other than that, there was a daily and nightly patrol often stationed here, watching the fence for any signs of a breach. Emma made a note to find out just who it was on patrol since they clearly weren't here.

In fact, the closer Emma got to the ten foot chain-link fence, the more she realised that nothing was here. No patrol, no mourners and most importantly, no walkers. But Regina had sworn there had been a breach and had come running like a bat out of hell to fetch Emma and the others to fix it. And yet, there was nothing, not even the song of crickets in the grass as she surveyed the area.

"Regina," Emma said, running her hands along the fence as silently as she could, not sure just what was lurking out in the woods beyond. "I can't find a breach," then she heard something, a soft, clicking sound that came all toofamiliarly to her ears. After all, Emma was no stranger to cocking a pistol and hearing the high click as it slotted a bullet into its chamber. Evidently, it wasn't who was lurking outside of the fence that Emma needed to be worried about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologise now to the Regina fans. As I think I said in previous chapters, Regina is the Shane of this story and we all know how that turns out...
> 
> Anyway, let me know your thoughts!


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